


Dust and Neon

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: Kit Brosca's SciFi AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Female Anti-Hero, Graphic Description, Loose Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: “No fucking way.”Kit Brosca leans against the wall of their hovel entryway and kicks Rica’s tire. Correction: Nudges it with her foot. Both the engine’s pistons look like safety glass that’s met too many rocks. A crack can split the engine block when the piston overheats and expands faster than the engine can take, but this time the piston shattered. That’s unlikely enough, but Kit sees shiny carbon-tube grit in the piston and coating other parts on the scooter.This shouldn’t be possible.





	1. No Fucking Way

**Author's Note:**

> In case the first chapter title isn't a hint, Kit swears a lot. You are warned. 
> 
> This is the first work in a series. Two works are written, Dust & Neon and White Marble. I have ideas but not plans beyond that. White Marble will have violence and explicit Zev/Brosca sex, but Dust & Neon is okay for a Teen and Up audience, if you don't mind the swearing and canon-typical violence. I will note the beyond-canon violence and sex before each chapter as it applies in White Marble.

“No fucking way.”

Kit leans against the wall of their hovel entryway and kicks Rica’s tire. Correction: Nudges it with her foot. Both the engine’s pistons look like safety glass that’s met too many rocks. A crack can split the engine block when the piston overheats and expands faster than the engine can take, but this time the piston shattered. That’s unlikely enough, but Kit sees shiny carbon-tube grit in the piston and coating other parts on the scooter.

This shouldn’t be possible. That grit means nanobots, which are expensive, but the level of control this would take… Would that require a Fade connection? Fade connections aren’t allowed in Orzammar.

Possible or not, the piston is scrap, but Kit can salvage the rest. She steps over her tool kit to remove the shattered piston, dragging her elbow along the wall as she turns. Kit regrets again how much Mom hates oil on the polished living room stone, forcing Kit to work in the entryway. _Someday we’ll have enough space,_ Kit hopes. _Someday._

Rica swears as she knocks into the real bike shoved into the living room while Kit isn’t working on it. Kit winces.

“Don’t hurt my baby,” Kit says.

“It’s not a baby, it’s made of metal.” Her sister keeps responding that way, but Kit always calls it her baby.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t touch my bike: serious injury or death may occur,” Kit says. Rica dramatically lays a single finger on Kit’s bike, then saunters over and leans against the doorway between the two rooms, arms folded across her chest, pushing up her breasts in her strappy tank top. Making sure Kit hasn’t scratched her pretty scooter. Kit makes a face at her. Not many people in this mountain get away with that shit.

Rica winces at the mess dribbling onto the rag rug covering the entryway’s stone floor. “Mom will kill you.”

Kit shrugs. “We’ve collected enough rags to replace it,” she says. “I don’t have the cash for garage time, and you said you need this done in time for your date with Bhelen. We’ll have to get new pistons. I love you, sis, but you can’t milk a deepstalker.”

“I’ve only got a little cash, but I’ll get more on my date.”

“Are you offering an investment?” Kit teases. “Maybe I should charge _you_ interest.” They both know that’s never going to happen. “When is this date?”

“It’s only two nights away, Kit.” Rica’s voice gets frantic.

“Rica, I want your date to succeed as much as you do,” Kit tells her, and Rica nods. “I need what you’ve got. I’m flat broke, but after my job today I can get the rest of the funds for the repairs.” Kit sighs, wishing they could get ahead for once. “You couldn’t have told me earlier?” She’d spent the last of their money on food, but should she have kept two knives instead of getting her new hand pickaxe? No, the old knife handle was loose. No one is intimidated when your blade leaves the handle in a fight.

“Eber told me he’d fix it free. Maybe he’s trying to ruin my chances with Bhelen in favor of his cousin.”

“I really hate that guy.”

“He’s a snake,” Rica agrees.

“Why’d you trust _him_ to fix it?” Kit asks. “I’m the one who doesn’t want you to starve.”

“Couldn’t see his scales,” she says, shrugging. “I thought he wanted a chance with me.”

Kit shakes her head and smirks at her sister. “Always bringing in the boys.” She bags the shattered pistons in plastic. “I’ll do my best, Rica. Hey, you could borrow my bike and tell anyone who asks it was a loan while yours was in the shop.”

“Sis, your bike doesn’t belong in the Diamond Quarter.”

Kit shrugs. “Neither do I,” she says.

“Sorry,” Rica says more gently, “but those diamond-quarter snobs would be within their rights to start a scandal if I use your mode of transport.” She says this last phrase with an exaggerated uppity air.

Kit shakes her head. “Damn nobles. I’ll do my best,” she repeats.

“Thanks, asshole,” Rica says, grinning prettily as she heads back into the main room. ~~~~

The courier for Beraht walks in the door with a polite tap. _Gun on one hip, knife on the other._

“Hey, Kit,” she says.

“Nawal! How’s it hanging, solrocka?” Kit jerks her chin at her and wipes her hands to greet her properly. She _knows_ her new pickaxe and trusty knife are on her belt, she does _not_ have to pat them.

Her fingers brush the handles anyway.

“The usual. I’ve got another mark for you and Leske: needs a lesson. Heard Beraht ranting. Guy has a side business.”

“Fucking idiot. Runner?”

“Self-promoted to sales,” Nawal says, nodding. “High-risk customers, jacking up prices. Regular customers noticed skimming.” Nawal hands Kit the letter. “The mark—Oskias—had good explanations until one of his customers imploded, too much Dust, and gave his name.”

Kit laughs, loud and low, filling the hovel.

“Kit, shut the fuck up!” snaps a woman at the back.

“Sorry, Mom.” Kit calls back. “So this the stats?”

“Yeah, it’s all there.”

“Perfect. Thanks, solrocka.” Kit opens it as Nawal leaves.

“Keep it rockin, Kit.”

The brittle paper Kit unfolds has been recycled and whitened too many times. It’s made of wood pulp from the Surface held together with mine lichen. The smell makes Kit vaguely hungry. She shakes her head. They have better options these days, pure lichen and even fruit and meat on paydays.

Kit reads the stats on her new mark as she drifts into the living room and sits on the familiar seat of her bike: he has strawberry blonde hair, bright blue eyes, average height, a little extra weight, no combat experience. She checks the black-and-white of his face: no brand. His ride is just a bike, but an expensive one. Between that and no brand, he’s Merchant Caste. “Hmm.” Implosion Man alone would not be enough to risk a side business for. _Possible chance for advancement… or profit._ “Or both,” Kit murmurs to herself, folding the paper into her pocket and walking her bike out the door. Time to drag her family out of poverty for good.

###

Oskias’ bright-yellow helmet glows under the tube-gas signs on every business, making him easy to track among the tall stone buildings. These signs double as street lighting under the dark stone ceiling vaulting above Orzammar.

As Oskias weaves through traffic, glancing over his shoulder at Kit, he probably notices nothing more than her xenon-green armband. She wears dark brown so that armband stands out nice and clear. She isn’t wearing a face mask – not like she’s going to the Deep Roads – but her face brand only marks her as Dust Town, not Carta.

Too bad this mark is probably a dunce. Her leather-clad Deep bike is shit unless you know what you’re looking at. Like any bike back from the Deep Roads, hers can climb stairs, speed over light debris or bodies without losing traction, and pop the front tire to climb over larger obstacles. Right now, though, Kit is using all of her skill to keep the damn thing from hitting anyone in the narrow market alleys. Leske isn’t on the seat behind her for this job. Instead, he’s on his own bike, taking advantage of the openings Kit pushes through, staying close. They both use their horns mercilessly and shout creative obscenities at anyone who doesn’t move fast enough. Oskias isn’t as aggressive as any Carta, and the gap between them steadily closes.

He glances around, between them and the surrounding buildings: smithies, warehouses for mining equipment, repair shops for more mining equipment. Shit the nobles want out of their way, but not in Dust Town. He heads for the market proper. Here the gas lights are a riot of color: Still lots of blue and green, but more yellow and purple with red for the fancier shops. Signs above doors are still high. Two or three dwarves could stand on each others’ heads and reach. Light also streams out of shops lucky enough to have windows to display their wares protected from light fingers.

Kit snorts as she follows into the market. _Does he think an audience will save him?_ His next turn leads straight for Tapsters.

“Leske!” Kit says through her helmet mic. “He’s going to Tapsters. Keep on him, keep me updated.”

“Watch your Blighted ankles, you bronto-humping drainage ditch!” Leske shouts at a pedestrian as Kit peels off down an alley.

The alleys aren’t as flashy or busy as the streets. There was a push some time ago to eliminate dark alleys, so cheap xenon tubes are at ankle height, broken. Dark alleys are good for business.

“Right on track,” Leske crows between curses. “Asshole thinks he’s lost you.”

“Deploy at your discretion, Leske.”

Kit zips down the alleys, and soon she’s seeing the backs of worker safety and food shops. She knows the rusty fire escape to Tapsters of the Orzammar Mining Company like she knows her own house: every creak and loose bolt. She throws her bike into lock, grips the fire escape, and scales it, clattering to the bar’s back window. The xenon stripe on the bike will protect it as well as it does her, and the lock should do the rest.

Was she fast enough? _Own it, don’t push it._ Intimidation is often in the presentation. Nothing like predicting a mark’s moves to scare them shitless. Through the window, she saunters fast down the stairs, to the bar. The rich smell of brewing lichen beer assaults her nose.

“Deployed,” Leske says. Kit hears a rumble and tries to remember what this one was. Fire? Rock explosion? They keep these distractions away from people. “Perfection. He thinks we’re that way and is diving for the nearest shelter.”

But will he settle on Tapsters? She orders three beers like she’s placing a bet. They don’t throw her on the street: the green Carta armband negates the face brand, at least here. As the drinks arrive in huge mugs, someone slams the door open, puffing loud over the subdued conversation.

“Knock, knock,” Leske says over the comm, and Kit grins. Place of comfort in time of trouble. Marks are so effing predictable. Kit pays for the drinks and eyes Oskias using the mirror behind the bar as he takes off his helmet, straightens his jacket, greets another patron by the door, and strides toward the bar. The patron barely glances at him.

Kit turns, holding the three beers by the handles. “Oskias!” She smiles her dangerous smile as Leske enters behind Oskias, all dark glower and even breath. “Good to see you! Join us for a drink, friend.”

“Uh!” Oskias turns, but Leske, still glowering, claps a hand on his shoulder and spins him back.

“We insist! Join us. Friend.” Leske is the shorter man, but his bulk is entirely muscle. Kit has seen him knock a merchant twice his size flat barehanded. Unlike most Carta muscle, his brand is stark against his smooth, light brown face without more tattoos. He says it shows pride in being Casteless to not hide his Brand. It also helps with his resting shut-the-fuck-up face. The glower adds to his murderous expression, as her grin adds to hers. Oskias quails as he faces Kit. For a moment, she thinks he might bolt, but instead he joins them at their usual table. Leske sits with his back to the window, facing the door, and Kit sits where she can watch the window for friends, assholes, and active shooters in the alley. They settle in, and Kit drinks from her mug. _Stale piss with earthy undertones_ , she thinks. Leske grins around his mug, but Oskias doesn’t touch his.

“I’m Kit, and this is my associate Leske.” Kit starts with her friendliest business tone. “We represent Beraht’s interests. Do you know why Beraht would be interested in you?” She leans over the table.

“N-No.”

“Why don’t you give it a guess?” Kit allows a touch of impatience in her tone to make the situation clear.

“I-I really can’t think of anything. There’s nothing. Unless he has it out for me. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Beraht. He’s always had it out for me.”

“Oh, friend you are in a sorry state,” Leske says, sounding amused and sympathetic.

He’s right: this mark is off, contradicting himself, jittery, eyes too bright.

“You’re here to make me sorrier, are you?” His voice cracks a little.

“That depends on you…” Leske glances around the bar.

“I won’t go anywhere else to talk.”

Leske waves a hand. “Pfsh,” he says, allowing himself to show for a second. “You’re not safe here. You think we couldn’t kill you in public and get away with it? We have friends in high places. However, it’s a hassle. I don’t feel like it today.” _Leske must like this one._ Or maybe, like Kit, he’s tired of killing.

“More importantly,” Kit says, “I’m affronted by your earlier comment, friend. It’s always a good idea to get involved with Beraht, wouldn’t you say?” Kit tilts her head at her partner.

“Absolutely.” Leske leans across the table to Oskias, looking him straight in the eye. “You know what’s not a good idea?”

“What’s that?” Kit says, enjoying the panic in Oskias’ eyes.

“Screwing Beraht over,” Leske growls as he leans back, still in eye contact with the mark.

Oskias visibly sweats. Perfect.

“That’s absolutely true,” Kit says seriously. “But Oskias seems like a swell guy, so perhaps we can give him a break.” She leans toward the mark. “I’m being generous here,” she points out helpfully.

“Oh. Um, thank you?”

Kit grins her dangerous grin, which gets sharper as Oskias winces.

“This is on my initiative, you understand.” Leske doesn’t bother hiding his questioning twitch, and Kit shoots him the look that means, ‘Trust me I have a plan.’ Leske nods imperceptibly and relaxes as much as ever on a job. “But I’m taking a risk.”

“You’ll vouch for me?”

“No, solrocka, it’s too late for that,” Kit growls and leans in close. “Beraht wants you dead, but I can let you live topside.” He jerks upright. Kit leans back and waves generously. “That sound good, ’ant?”

“If I go to the Surface, I’ll be Castless. I’ll never work in Orzammar again.”

“What’s wrong with Casteless, ’ant?” He flinches. Kit wonders if he’s having some sort of slow-motion seizure.

“I’ll grant you being a Surfacer would suck,” Leske concedes, “but at least you’d be a Dwarven Surfacer.”

“The way I see it,” she says, “the dead don’t work anywhere.” Kit pulls her dagger from her belt, and the tension in the bar shifts. She rubs an imaginary speck of tarnish onto the artfully patched brown sleeve of her leather jacket. Oskias’ gaze is pulled by that bright green armband.

He’s gripping the table with both hands, and he closes his eyes, breathing. When he opens them, his grip doesn’t loosen, but he says:

“I’d never be part of the Stone.”

Kit lowers her dagger under the table and runs it firmly up the dwarf’s thigh, gouging the new-leather leggings but not cutting through. “That is your choice. I can certainly help you join the Stone, friend.” _As we never will._ But she tamps that useless bitterness down.

Oskias lifts both hands to object, clearly panicking. “I’ve never screwed – done anything to – Beraht!” His voice carries nicely. When this asshole is never seen again, the other patrons will remember who he’d crossed.

Kit stops her knife for now. “Oh, really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Clearly you’ve used the product against company policy,” Leske points out.

“No! No, I would never.”

“Leske, remind me, what are the symptoms of lyrium consumption?” Kit inquires, sheathing her knife.

“Paranoia.” Later they will snicker at the way the mark’s glance shifts between them.

Kit shrugs. “In fairness, we are after him.”

“Shaking,” Leske continues.

Oskias grabs his own hand and both shake. He giggles nervously.

“High-pitched giggling.”

“Oh, come on, now you’re just making things up,” Oskias objects.

Kit shoots Leske a look but says, “We’ve seen skimmers before. High-pitched giggling is common. You’ve been using the product. Be honest, now.”

“No.” Oskias’ voice squeals. He visibly realizes they might be less than tolerant of lying. “Yes? By the Ancestors, what will you do about it?”

“Overconfidence.”

“Leske, I think he wants to know.”

“I can’t take not knowing.”

“Oh,” Leske says, surprised.

 _Own it, don’t push it,_ Kit thinks. She can pull this off if she plays it cool. She gets out her nano lighter and plays with it, lighting a single flame, directing the fire nano with the buttons, spinning it.

“We need your customers.”

Leske shoots Kit a look: _dangerous_.

Kit returns fire: _Worth it_. Her family has to live in Dust Town for now. They don’t have to starve.

“I don’t know…” Oskias is fascinated by the fire Kit controls as if by magic.

Leske tries flattery. “As a skilled merchant, you must have had to work hard to find the need and”—He throws in a dig at Kit’s idea while he’s at it—“negotiate the deals. How many customers have you cultivated?” It’s as thin as Kit’s friendliness, but it does the trick.

“… Three.”

“What’s the hesitation, solrocka?” Kit says, tucking the cold lighter away and slapping his shoulder. Hard.

Oskias collapses under the blow, and then flinches from it too late. “This information is keeping me alive.”

Kit laughs, and it fills Tapsters as easily as her family’s Dust Town hovel. “And yet if you’re unwilling to share it, it won’t keep you alive long,” she points out and downs half her mug.

Oskias whimpers.

“Look, solrocka.” Leske levels with the dwarf. “You want life on the Surface, or you want to die here?”

Kit grins at the mark.

“Surface?”

“Excellent choice,” Leske assures him, quaffing his beer.

“Give us two names here.” Kit says. “We will escort you safely to the gate. You’re safe from us in the sacred Hall of the Paragons. Then give us the third name and go fall into the sky.”

The ’ant huffs up courage to say, “One here, two names there.”

Kit considers, glances at Leske, who shrugs. “Deal. Seal it with the name, solrocka.”

“Rov Karkald.”

Kit stands, startling the mark, then bows and holds out her hand. “Right this way, Ser,” she says, smiling her sweetest smile. He still shivers.

“I’ll need my things.” _No thinking now, Oskias. This can still end very badly for you if we aren’t careful._

“Beraht needs to think you’re dead. Dead men don’t take their things with them. Which reminds me, you’ll empty your pockets at the Hall.”

Oskias’ sharply blue eyes get larger for a moment before he takes her hand like the most genteel of ladies and stands. She tucks his hand in her elbow and steers him out of Tapsters. He starts for his bike, but Leske gets in his way, still smiling.

“No fucking way you’ll use your transport. That stays right there. You’ll ride with me,” Kit says.

Leske throws helmet and gloves on, and walks his bike as Kit leads the mark to her bike in back. She hands him a bright pink helmet with floppy nug ears. “Sorry,” she says, “it’s my boyfriend’s.” She doesn’t say future boyfriend, marks don’t need that information. The mark looks at Leske, confused, but he shakes his head.

“Not me, I’d hate to wear that shit,” he jests, jerking his chin at the nug ears.

On the way, she uses their walkie comm, also linked to the Nug Crown, to jovially share stories of the surface: people saved from falling into the sky by helpful Surfacers with ropes and nets. How he’d have to learn to hold the ground with his feet. Water falling from the open sky and flowing like lava. Drowning. Brontos without the horn: skinny but tall and fast and just as dangerous when they bite or kick. Nugs with short ears and antlers, also bigger and faster. Everything’s bigger and faster on the surface, she says: humans, elves, and qunari instead of dwarves. Then there’s mages, or more respectfully nanotech pilots. Who the fuck even knows what they’re capable of. Summoning balls of fire? Healing mortal wounds? Bringing the dead back to life? She’s heard it all. The entire drive, Kit appreciates the arch of stone above the city, thick and reassuring.

They reach the Hall of Paragons: the only passage to the Surface. The brightest of Orzammar are on display here: large pale-stone statues of the Paragons line the dark stone walls, red gas lights behind them simulating the glow of Deep Roads lava flows. This place always reminds Kit what she would lose if she ever left: the achievements of her people, however little chance she has to contribute.

When they get there, Kit nearly laughs at the sheen of sweat over his face, drying fast in the chill air.

“You’ll do fine,” she assures him, “but if Beraht or Jarvia find out you’re not dead, they will remedy that.”

“Why will they think I’m dead? People saw us leave.”

“Good point.” Kit shoves Oskias into a deep nook in the soaring wall, drawing a blade. “Scream loud,” she says, and cuts off a pinky while he screams bloody murder and burns the end of his finger with her nanotech lighter. She stuffs a rag in his mouth to cut the sound off suddenly. She’ll have to point the uses of her lighter out to Leske next time he accuses her of extravagance for keeping it. As if it were saleable in Orzammar. He’ll point out that a regular lighter would be the same, and their friendly bickering will continue. She wraps the detached finger in another rag, which soaks up the blood. Then she shoves him against the wall, arm across his throat but not pressing. He’s still whimpering around the rag. “Shut up.” He shuts up. “You will live, I swear to you, unless you fuck it up. We clear?” He nods, and she removes the rag. “Now empty your pockets and tell me the last two names.”

Oskias fumbles with the objects in his pockets and gives her the last two names as he pulls out several summer-stone coins, a bit of string, a small stone carved on one side and worn smooth on the other, a vial of clear liquid, and a bottle opener.

“Good boy.” Kit takes the objects. “Shit, man, you carry it with you?”

The mark shakes his head. “It’s a distillation agent, not—not the dust. Dust is blue.”

“I know; I’m just giving you grief.” Kit pockets it and the summers, handing him the string and bottle opener. She holds up the stone, which glints green in the light. “Personal charm?”

“Good luck,” he says, nodding and still disoriented from the pain.

“That’s perfect for proving it was you.” She pulls up his hood and puts her hands on his shoulders. She puts no threat into what she says next. Just stating the facts: “If you show your face in Orzammar again, you won’t survive it. I will haul you out there. Act like a body. You are dead. I want even Leske to believe it. Land hard and without reacting when we drop you outside. It’s easy if you keep your muscles loose.”

No one looks their way when she checks the Hall. Leske and Kit support the limp body between them. “Right this way, ser,” Leske bellows fakely. They haul the limp body to the door and Leske shoves him through it, where he sprawls in the snow like a discarded doll. _Not_ _the first time we’ve dumped a body this way. Maybe the first time it’s alive._ Kit takes a moment to admire Oskias’ acting skills. Maybe he’ll be okay outside. The open sky looms in the edge of her vision, and she focuses on anything else.

“Hey!” Shouts the outer guard. Kit closes the door again before the situation devolves. They mount up and head back to Orzammar proper.

“Vicious as always, solrocka,” Leske says over the comm. “For a minute there, I thought you were losing your touch.”

“Leske, you know how sick I am of looking at dead bodies,” Kit says.

“I know, but we have a reputation in the Carta to maintain.”

“That’s why it’s important to collect trophies from your victims,” she says, flashing the bloody rag with the finger. “We can’t starve, can we?”

“Aren’t you going to hide that?”

“People saw him alive with us. They need to know he’s dead now. You know Beraht can keep us out of the guard’s reach.” Her lip curls into her vicious smile. “How do you feel about another drink at Tapsters, after we chop the bike?”

“I catch ya. Absolutely.”

As always, Leske drops the bike off with no fanfare. The summers are secondary; they need the bike itself to be gone, just like they’ll burn the finger once Beraht has seen the evidence. It’s Kit’s way of giving back: poor dusters can afford parts because of bikes like this. Then they climb on Kit’s bike and head back to Tapsters.

While Leske orders their drinks, Kit returns to their table and drops the wrapped and bloody finger on it. More than one patron tries not to stare at it, and more than one fails. Kit smiles her sweetest, and everyone looks away. When Leske arrives with the drinks, they sit facing the window and the door, as before, the mark’s stolen finger at his place. They split their riches from Oskias’ pockets and bike evenly. Leske’s supporting his family, too.

They drink slowly, telling loud tales of murder and mayhem – always someone else’s murder and mayhem, names never given. They’ve danced these steps before, and soon the manager comes over to ask politely how their drinks are. Fine, fine. Kit bumps the bloody rag, a step in the dance.

“What’s that?” the manager asks obligingly.

“A rat’s tail.”

“You chopped off the tail?” He’s been around enough to smirk, rather than blanch.

“Trophy. It was troublesome but won’t bother anyone again.” Kit says this expansively, as if the cretin had been raping everyone’s daughters and sons, and the Carta has done Orzammar a favor for which they’ll never be rewarded. _Close enough, he’d been a traitor twice over._ In Kit’s mind, Oskias is dead.

“I think we all knew that rat’s days were numbered,” Tapsters’ manager says and returns to his duties.

After that, they shotgun the last of their beer and head for Beraht’s shop.

A merchant with an actual shop in Orzammar is sitting high hog. This one is modest enough: Kit has heard of shops in the upper Commons with clear glass and red tube-gas light lava flows, stocked with gems and gold-gilt furniture of solid wood. Beraht’s counter is more practical stone, displaying blades and guns all made by his smithing business partners. Kit never lets anyone say otherwise.

“Hey, boss,” Kit says.

“Why are you using the front entrance?” Beraht snaps.

“Sorry, boss, we were just at Tapsters,” Leske says. “Faster to come through this way. Won’t happen again.”

Beraht grunts. “I hear you were parading the mark around.”

“Worth it,” Kit assures him.

“You were supposed to get rid of him.”

Kit tosses the finger and the lucky stone onto the counter. “He’s gone, with not a single reliable witness to the deed. Thought I’d make it easy on our friends.”

“You know what would make it really easy on our friends? Not parading a dead man around town. Tell me why it was worth _that_ inconvenience.”

Kit nods seriously. “Oskias was in the Nug Crown. Even if it didn’t have a darkened face shield, no one can see past the ears. No way to prove it was him. Even better, the pageantry got a name out of him: Rov Karkald was his other customer. You can use that for fun and profit, I assume?”

Beraht nods reluctantly. “I’ll check it. That’s good work if it pans out. I’ll send a messenger tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss. I hope it does, there’s little chance we’ll get better from him now.” Kit jerks her chin in salute on her way out the door.

Leske follows her lead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaps of love on my betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! They are both lovely and have helped me improve this work so much. I don't always listen to their wisdom, so all mistakes and problematic content are mine.


	2. Payday Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit can't get into trouble shopping, can she?

The next day, Vorn stops by the Brosca hovel. _Tools, the lot of them._ Kalah had a nice job scrubbing fuel residue off the street, but that ended and now she’s given her daughters to Beraht to train: one for killing and the other for whoring. _Excuse me, noble hunting._

Kit is in the living room washing a bright pink helmet, maybe her sister’s. Rica is _loudly_ pretending it’s normal to have a high-ranking Carta killer in her living room. She’s not speaking, but she’s not looking at him, moving too fast. Vorn hates that shit.

“Speak,” Kit says, as if he were a mabari on the Surface. She jerks her chin at him respectfully enough.

“Shut up, duster,” he says, skipping the salute and thrusting an envelope toward her, heavy with blues. Shuffling in the back room. _The mother, Kalah._ These fucking noobs.

Kit looks up slyly, catching him off-guard. “Aren’t you a thug paragon,” she says, and her smile actually unnerves him a little. She dries her hands and takes the letter. “Thanks,” she says.

“Need verbal confirmation,” Vorn bites off. He can hear his teeth click at the end of each word. Good, let her know he’s mad.

Kit shrugs, the cocky bastard, opens it, and pockets the blues. “Be there. Taking one to Leske?”

He glares at her.

“Can’t say.” She nods. “Ask him to stop by? Thanks.” Kit smiles at Vorn and returns to her cleaning. The smile is bloodthirsty, like she's enjoying the image of holding his own guts in.

“Do it yourself,” he snaps and leaves, annoyed with himself. Why wouldn’t Leske join her? Those two are a team, rumor says more. Well. Beraht’s oddly paranoid practices have kept him alive longer than any Carta boss since Gloror and Luda. Maybe Vorn should praise the boss instead of shaking his head.

###

“Payday,” Leske says, closing his door behind him. “Officially and everything. Going shopping?”

“Sure. My bike. Use my helmet?” Kit teases, deadpan. Leske couldn’t say how he knows when she’s joking.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind the pink helmet, if it fit me. It’s a nice color. Compliments my skin tone. Nug ears are a nice touch, _really_. Sadly, it doesn’t fit like mine.”

“Besides, more badass in yours.”

“Well, there’s that. Nothing about nug ears says badass, Kit.”

“That’s the idea. Paragons, you see that mark in the thing?”

“It’s the flapping. Probably smells like sour sweat.”

“Cleaned it! Still wet.” Kit settles on her bike and shoves her own helmet over her head.

“Offered me a wet helmet?”

“Shit, duster, always refuse that thing. Dry raven locks were never at risk. Squirm nice though.”

Leske chuckles and throws a leg over the rear seat. They’re not on a job, but they keep their armbands to ensure service. They’re both wearing well-hidden knives for convenience in the crowd. No point causing a panic with an open weapon display, but neither of them can afford to go unarmed. She revs the bike as Leske settles behind her, ready. 

“What do you need?” he asks through the helmet mics.

“Food, solrocka. Maybe a whetstone. Pistons for Rica’s vespa. You?”

“Food. Drool over knives while you get your whetstone. Tuner for Farkral’s radio.”

Kit nods. “Non-perishables first.” Leske jerks a nod in agreement and then holds the back of the seat behind him. He taps hats off daft passersby, delighting in the dismayed cries behind them, cut short when they spot the green stitching on the back of his jacket or their green armbands. He’s not warrior-caste, a roar, in the Deep Roads or Provings, but he’s as close as he wants to get.

The side streets are crammed. Kit tends right with traffic, but if there’s an opening on the left she takes it. Carta has right-of-way since nobles never rub elbows with the teeming masses. She cuts no one off: everyone gets there if everyone keeps moving. Dwarves on foot keep near walls to duck into doorways if needed. If it weren’t for the rare open space, Leske would swear the peds are faster.

They get to the mechanicals district of the market. Kit pauses in front of Leske’s favorite electronics refurb shop for him to hop off. She’ll park her bike in an alley and carry her helmet: criminals lurk, even in this nice neighborhood. Leske joins the press of bodies and machines, down a few doors to duck into a narrow doorway. This is the best electronics shop in Orzammar.

The shop is elbow-brushingly narrow, but tall. Ladders lean against shelf after self of long, narrow boxes, each painstakingly labeled and organized by potentiometer or resistor, switch or device. The smallest timing circuits are legal in Orzammar, but no one risks anything that connects to the FadeNet.

“Leske! How’s traffic?” Matmir says, smiling, rising, and pouring hot water over lichen tea in a pouch of thinned nug skin. This shop’s dizer is soft, comfortable like his thin sweaters, and makes Leske vaguely homesick for a place he’s never lived.

“Great when Kit’s driving,” Leske says.

“That woman. I will never understand the thrills she gets off on,” Matmir says, handing Leske a cup, refined and fragile between Leske’s thick, calloused fingers. Though his skin is darker, Matmir’s hair and eyes match Leske’s: black hair, brown eyes. Only a few years ago, Leske entertained a fantasy that Matmir was his father, but the brand on his face ensures they will never be friends beyond customer and dizer.

A ridiculous dream, anyway.

“She gets thrilled only if people she runs over deserve it.”

“Course they deserve it. They were in her way,” Matmir says, waving a hand expansively. “But what do you need today, Leske?”

“Do you have a tuner?” Leske mutters, blowing at his tea.

“You know they’re legal,” Matmir says, clunking up a ladder to retrieve a large, plain, open-topped box labeled ‘radio tuners.’

“Yeah, but I hear things,” Leske says, sipping his tea and yearning for all the parts. Tinkering here with every possible component would be decadant.

“That’s what a radio is for,” Matmir says, shoving his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. Most dizers aren’t allowed to be so cheeky with Carta, but Leske’s known Matmir since before he was Carta. He gets the impression their friendship started as a social experiment, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

Leske shrugs. “Dwarves don’t understand the difference between radio waves and FadeNet. There’s talk about darkspawn maybe linking with tuners.”

Matmir scoffs. “Tuners don’t work that way.”

“I know, but who’ll listen to a stupid duster, am I right?”

Matmir looks sad. “Leske, you are many things. Violence is not the only thing you’re capable of.”

Leske smirks at him. “You selling me my part, sweet-talker, or have to beat it out of you?”

Matmir laughs loudly. “Okay, I could sell you a part with everything you’d dream of needing for 25 summers, but we found these little radios cheap from Orlais for a fraction of the price.”

Leske could haggle as low as ten summers, which isn’t enough. “Let me see the cheap one,” he says.

“Here’s the radio the kids and I took apart.” Matmir moves a small cardboard box from the larger one to the stone counter. Leske plucks out the tuner to examine. It has connections he can use and the range includes major Carta frequencies. Glancing at the casing in the box, it doesn’t look difficult to take apart.

“Might work,” he allows. No point tipping his hand before the bargaining starts.

“Four blues,” Matmir says, settling in. The man enjoys bargaining as much as Leske. It’s why this shop is the best.

Leske scoffs. “What did you pay for this part, five onnies? But you need to profit. I’ll give you seven onnies.”

“Leske, it’s not profit! I’ve got this store to maintain, taxes to pay, and a family to feed.” Matmir never gives details about his wife or kids, but Leske can’t blame him. “I can go down to three blues, four onnies.”

“You’re not the only one supporting a family. Got two brothers, Matmir, and dad can’t work. Can’t maintain your whole store with one little part. Give you a blue and three onnies.”

“Never mind my family! A blue wouldn’t keep the doors open!” Now Matmir pulls out a calculator, fingers flying across the keys. Leske reminds himself that it could be for show, but it’s a nice touch. “I can let you have it for two blues, seven onnies and not starve.”

Leske scoffs. “Think I was buying the fancy 25-summer tuner with how you’re carrying on. A few blues, can’t give a loyal customer a discount?” Leske isn’t sure how much food is today, but he errs on the side of caution. “Two blues and three onnies. Won’t starve from four onnies, old cheapskate.” Leske knows he can get away with this last dig because Matmir is smiling, enjoying their banter as he always does.

“Deal,” Matmir says, surprising Leske. Usually Matmir has Leske wishing he could split an onnie, but his prices are always more than fair for a Duster. “You’re right, you are a valued customer.” Before Leske can recover from his surprise, Matmir pushes a radio the size of Leske’s fist across the counter, brand new in its plastic package jazzed up with flashy stickers. “Leske, I hate the Surface, but you’re wasted in the Carta.”

Leske finally recovers enough to put his money down: two metal coins with a blue sheen and three black stone coins. “Makes two of us,” Leske says, ignoring the suggestion and taking his radio. “Sunshine and other weird shit.”

Matmir sighs. He can’t understand the real limits of Leske’s ‘potential.’ At best he can rise in the Carta’s ranks. He and Kit might die any time, but they’ll help their families survive longer. Better than the Surface in Leske’s book.

“Have a good day, Matmir,” Leske says on his way out, tucking the part in a hip pouch.

“You too, Leske.”

###

As Leske leaves the shop, Kit is putting summer-stone coins on the counter at her favorite motorcycle-parts shop three doors down and across the street. Nugs. Family savings.

“Sounds good, Kit,” calls the dizer, picking up his money. “See you soon!”

“Kit!” Leske flicks his hand in the air when she turns toward him.

Kit pumps her open palm in response. She changes direction to join his flow and dodges a bike that nearly runs her over.

“Asshole.”

“Those damn things are dangerous.” Leske makes fun with his smile: she’d done the same to a ped not an hour ago.

“Exactly.”

They head toward the weapon sector of the market district: stands traced in neon lights clustered around the shops with permanent locations.

“They’re having fun figuring out how pistons got shattered,” Kit says, jerking her head back at the shop. “Might involve the guards in case of Fade use.”

“Better not,” Leske says, thinking of trouble.

Kit shrugs. “Conveniently forgot whose it was.” Dizers eye them and peds ignore or avoid them, often crossing the street.

Weapons and tools line the aisles: swords, guns, metal bats, wrenches, and enormous claymores and mauls. The Deep Roads and Proving weapons, poles with blades on the end and huge wooden sticks with handles and guards on one end, don’t interest Leske. People put the one-handed swords with a riot shield on the off-arm, but even that’s too unwieldy for his taste. Dizers display metal bullets less prominently than rubber for practice and maiming, paint for Provings. One shop has flashy Proving armor in front, but most of its inventory is more affordable knife armor and flak jackets plus motorcycle gear. Another has a white ball the size of Leske’s fist displayed in front, but no one has the space to play that surfacer game. The bats inside that red-and-blue-lit tent are metal in various weights. Bats don’t draw blood like blades, but they break even armored victims. Leske’s only seen them once in a fight. Slow as fuck, but brutal if the hit connects. Another shop holds pepper sprays ranging in effectiveness from Bell to Ghost. Also ‘nug traps’ that make the meat inedible but could crush and hold the leg of a darkspawn – or some dwarven asshole. In Leske’s experience, crushed legs only improve dwarven assholes.

Leske’s favorite weapons are the knives. More personal than guns, he tells anyone who asks, but more importantly they’re precise. No ricochets, more bleeding. Kit likes blades, too, but she branches out, like with her new hand-pickaxe, completely different from the massive two-handed pickaxes used in the Carta’s lyrium mining and everyone’s anti-darkspawn efforts. The small picks are for piercing skulls, she said when she got it. Leske supposes she’s not the only one who branches out. When the Carta needs more damage than death, Leske wraps a chain around each fist.

Leske loves the variety of blades, loves to talk with Kit for hours about what each knife says about the owner’s taste and practicality. The knives gleam in various shapes, leaf or wave or stiletto, made of steel or drakestone or gleaming black glass, long and slim on their black display fabric. There are little belt knives, but weapon blades are the length of a hand or two. This gives them less reach than a sword, but it’s easier to handle short blades in close spaces. In a knife fight, everyone gets cut.

They’ve found it pays to cultivate multiple dizers. One source can’t connect them to all the knives they’ve owned, left pieces of, or left in victims. These days Beraht might have a specific message to send, making it necessary to leave quality Carta-style knives in a pincushion of his choice.

Besides, they’re so shiny. How could they choose?

Since Kit is of a like mind – that’s how they first became friends, comparing knives and bragging about what they’d buy once they earned enough summer – she and Leske drool, asking about alloys and forging techniques used on the best pieces, to debate the merits later.

Leske wanders into a new knife stall a few arm-spans wide, ogling tables full of beautiful metal knives. Kit’s a stall over, but she’ll catch up soon. The dizer is eyeing him, not unusual. He reaches for a knife to test its edge.

“Don’t touch the merchandise,” the dizer says.

Leske pulls his hand back. “Why have it out?”

The dizer snorts. “ _Customers_ can do whatever they like.”

“What the fuck? I’ve got summer,” he says. Not right now, but Leske’s not telling this asshole.

“And where’d you get it? I don’t support thieves. Take your summers elsewhere.”

Leske sneers. “Not a fucking thief,” he says.

“You’re all thieves, with your so-called lyrium ‘gleaning.’ Get out of here.”

Kit’s in the stall, crowding past him with her knife drawn, pulling the dizer’s collar, standing close so the knife isn’t visible as it rests against his throat. “Wonder if you squeal like the last person I cut,” she says.

“Back to killing?” Leske asks. _She didn’t kill Oskias for cheating Beraht, but she’ll kill this guy for refusing service? What kind of fucked priorities…_

Kit glances at him, fierce grin still in place. Oskias hurt Beraht, but this asshole hurt _him_. Leske shakes his head. How did he deserve this fiercely loyalty?

Kit takes his head-shake as a signal. She hooks one leg behind the dizer and shoves him to the ground, letting him land hard. _She can’t let him off easy._ All this guy sees is the brand and the armband. Their co-workers would not appreciate the attitude leniency might inspire. Leske plucks a photo from behind the cash register and hands it to her. It’s a wife and nuglet in matching smithing aprons.

She shows it to the shopkeeper, still grinning like death. “Keeping this to be sure don’t refuse Carta service again. Daughter might learn how rude you’ve been.”

“Tah!” he says, grabbing for the photo. _How stupid can a mark be?_

“Lovely name.” Kit turns to Leske. “That a beautiful name?” When Leske nods, watching the mark, she turns back. “Looks smart. Have to explain her idiot father.” Kit’s tone implies far worse than she says.

“No! I—what do you want?”

“I want you to let Carta shop here. Think you can do that?”

“Yes! Definitely.”

“Good. I’ll put off my talk with Tah as long as you change your ways.” Kit tucks the photo into an inner pocket then glances at the knives. “There’s nothing but crap here, solrocka,” she says to Leske. “Let’s try another vendor.” Kit stomps out.

She leads through the street, clearing a path with her anger.

“Stone-blind bronto turd! Feed him nug shit, crush his balls under a bronto-foot vise, put his entire lineage in the Deep Roads. Dishonorably!”

“Hey,” Leske says. She stops, whirling to face him. In the busy market, no one is within reach, no one is watching. “Thanks, solrocka,” he says, and Kit softens.

“Welcome. Mark needs a swift kick in the stones. Why didn’t I think of that before?” She starts back, but Leske catches her and spots trouble.

“Because all he did was exclude me from what my cash situation would have excluded me from anyway,” Leske says.

“That’s not the _point_ , Leske!” she says.

He shrugs. “I get it. Want them as nervous as us. But…” Leske nods at the guards pushing through the crowd toward the stall. “Don’t need witnesses.”

Kit nods and continues on her way, Leske still following. The crowd calms, ignores them again.

“You’re right,” Kit says in bursts over her shoulder. “Should question every move. Served fucking right. Question our _survival_.”

Leske nods. Jobs allowed dusters are dangerous and rare. Can’t find one? Beg, join the Carta, or hunt nobles. Not worth more, Leske knows. As a lower-level Carta thug, he keeps his family fed. He appreciates Kit’s ambition, but survival first for both.

“Got this, duster,” he says. “One eye on him.” _Maybe send co-workers his way and report._ Leske can spin a story at headquarters that’ll inspire a half-dozen volunteers. _Leave the daughter out of it though._

“Hey, Duster, your summers are good enough for my shop,” a dizer calls. He says it lightly, and Leske’s pretty sure he didn’t see the recent fiasco.

“Wouldn’t be the green bands, would it old man?” Kit shouts back, an edge of bitterness still flavoring her words.

He barks. “You’re kids, if you consider me old. All the bands tell me is you won’t have to settle for anything sub-par.”

Leske glances at Kit and smirks. “You’re looking for the very best of what you need, aren’t you?” Nothing like pranks on dizers to cheer Kit up.

 _You are crazy,_ her looks says, but she’s smirking back.

The merchandiser can’t read her looks. Ends up his name is Legnar. He perks up and shows them his entire stock, pointing out the best knives and armor he got ‘on trade.’ It looks foreign enough to be true. It’s also gorgeous.

“The void is it from?” Kit asks, eyeing the matte black bike armor. It looks like it can take an ogre hit without denting. Or a wall at 100 kph. Main difference is who’s moving.

“Orlais,” he says proudly.

“No chance,” Kit says. “Orlesian shit is weird colors, never black.”

“Check this out.” He flips the chest piece, prying it as far open as he can. Not very far, it’s made for someone slender. And tall. Typical humans, no consideration for the dwarven physique. He finds an inscription inside. “Made for a Shadow of the Empire.”

“Ridiculous,” Leske says, taken aback. “That group doesn’t exist.”

“How do you know?” he says, smirking.

“The Orlesian Empire uses bards. Why would they need assassins?”

“I don’t know, but they must be skilled,” Legnar flips the armor back to present it to Leske, “and use the best equipment.”

Leske’s sorely tempted. He imagines in vivid detail, just for a moment, what the armor would feel like, how it would protect him in a fight. Easier to get in and out of whatever trouble Kit finds.

“Well, I’m sold,” Kit says. “I’ll buy what I’m looking for from you.”

That breaks the spell; Leske turns toward her to hide his smile.

“Excellent!” says Legnar. He almost feels sorry for this dizer. He’s been showing them around for a good half-hour. “What do you need today?”

“A whetstone.”

Legnar’s face falls.

Kit laughs. “Sorry, man. You’re very cool, but that’s all I need. When we have call for your Orlesian armor, your place will come to mind first.”

Legnar glowers and shakes his finger at them, but he sells the whetstone. The best one he has is only a few blue, but it’s squared, longer than Leske’s hand, and almost as wide. It has a different grit on each of its four long faces. It’s two blue more than it should be, but Kit pays without haggling.

They finish the purchase and say cordial if grumpy farewells. A shiner’s red-orange car glides through the market row, honking and forcing everyone to press into doorways and against walls or be flattened. For two seconds, Leske can’t breathe in the crush of pedestrians while a bike wheel presses between his shins.

“Sorry.” the driver has a nice smile though. Leske wonders if there’s a tat under the half-face visor. Not likely with the beard.

“Buy me a drink to make it up to me,” Leske says on impulse.

That turns the smile into a grin, but then his eyes jump to the brand. Leske flinches as the driver makes a disgusted noise.

“Lick a nug, duster.”

Then the crush is off and the bike gone.

“He wasn’t worth your time,” Kit says. “His fucking Ferelden Forder has a faulty carburetor and a chipping paint job.”

The red-orange car stops at Tapsters. One dwarf gets out. One. In a 5-seat car.

“Asshole.” Leske says. He’s not sure whether he means the noble or the Forder driver.

“Yeah. Food?” Kit says, elbowing him in the right direction.

“Probably stringy. Oh, from the market. Sure.” Leske smirks to show he’s fine, and they head that way.

Paragons, the smells in this part of town! Fucking gorgeous: frying grease and starches and meat.

“I should spend all my coin on stuff for home,” Kit says, “but I can never resist those nug-licking dumplings.” She stops at a stand where pouches of flat noodle are stuffed, boiled and fried. Kit and Leske buy a few dumplings filled with potato, lichen, and onion, but they walk by the fancier stands with pre-made stuffed breads, pastries, pretzels, latkes, and even one with a big cooked bronto roll with egg, pickle, and nug sausage. The cook wrapped the roll in plastic to take home to a family.

They split up. Leske buys cheap food overall but splurges on nug sausage. He gets a good supply of lichen, potatoes, a few pounds of blended grain and lichen flour, and a pound of bronto cheese.

“Got everything you need?” Leske asks when Kit meets him back at her bike.

“Yeah,” Kit says, apricot preserves from the Surface peeking out of her bags. “Got you beets, they were super-cheap. Might want to make them tonight, though.”

“Thanks, duster, not gonna turn that away. I’ll make soup.”

“Consider it payment for holding the bags while I drive.” There’s too much food to fit in the saddle bags behind Leske’s knees, but she tucks a package of real sugar for Rica’s confections in there for safekeeping. The investment food.

“Hey, that’s nothing, I feel like a regular roar.”

Kit scoffs with a hint of earlier bitterness. “You’ll never be a roar, duster.”

“That works out; I don’t want to go to the Deep Roads, anyway.”

“No? Seems exciting.” Kit says, weaving between normals into Dust Town.

“Seems overrun with darkspawn. And for what? To glean sparse lyrium and mining relics? My luck, I’d cut myself on a relic and get pure lyrium in my blood. No thanks. Let other people shine that veneer over Carta business.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Kit pulls up in front of Leske’s door. “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow for our next job, maybe watch the Provings after.”

“See you, solrocka,” Leske says, handing her bags off and swinging one leg over the bike.

Steering with one hand, Kit jets a bit to her door and walks the bike into her place. Leske turns to his crowded home.

“It’s me!” Leske calls as he heads in.

“Leske, you’re back!” his kid brother calls. “Did you get lots of food? There’s nothing to eat.”

Leske’s still hungry, too, so he ruffles his brother’s hair and makes pancakes, using the new flour and a few other things on hand. Soaks lichen to use with the beets tonight. Spreads the soft cheese on the flat cakes, hands a plate to his brother, sets aside plates for Dad and his middle brother, and eats his fill.

Paydays are good days. We’ll see about tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adoration for my lovely betas this chapter, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! I don't always listen to their wisdom, so mistakes are all mine.


	3. Advancement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise of advancement leads to desperate measures. Paragons, what have Kit and Leske gotten into?

Leske doesn’t trust it.

“You’ve earned a better job,” Beraht is saying.

They’d gone through the Carta maze this time. The private route to Beraht’s shop tunneled behind back walls of the lower Commons. Leske suspects that someday the nobles will expand it and make another street of shops, but for now this back way is Carta-controlled. There’s storage, an armory, and another armory’s worth of weapons in Duster belts. Kit’s always talking about what Casteless do with a void of solid rock and time. There really should be a Paragon of thugs, she said once, because their security and double-checks and timed guard shifts and Leske understands about half of it… It’s dwarven ingenuity at its best, Kit says, minus the tools and materials the fucking smiths have.

So, follow Kit’s walk of pride with Beraht promoting them and yeah, Kit’s too confident. _Nothing’s wrong. Kit gave Beraht everything._ But Leske knows there were three names, and Kit only gave Beraht one. Kit hasn’t technically screwed Beraht over. Yet.

“We’ve put money and resources on a particular underdog for today’s Proving race, name of Everd,” Beraht continues. “I want you to make sure he’s driving in top shape out there.”

Kit nods with a grunt and her trademark dangerous smile. Leske and Kit have done carrot-and-stick so many times, they sometimes do it accidentally during intense bargaining at market. Beraht seems unaffected, but Leske wonders.

 _This should be no problem. Beraht seems satisfied, smug even._ Why are the hairs on the back of Leske’s neck prickling?

“This job will pay well, but if you fail, I will take it out on your hide.”

“Nugs and Provings,” Kit mutters. _The necessities of every dwarf,_ Leske thinks automatically. They’ve discussed why guards neglect the back entrances of Provings, in spite of the strict bouncers in front.

Beraht doesn’t know Kit well. “Explain,” he says.

“The Carta gives people what they need. In this case, a spectacular upset by the underdog. They’ll tell stories for years, keep their mind off their troubles.”

“We’re charitable like that,” Beraht agrees with a smirk.

###

Kit leads Leske through the back, which means they’ll bike to the Provings. Annoying, since the front door is near the Proving ring, but the Carta doesn’t own the town. _Yet._

Once they’re on their bikes, Kit manages not to crow into her helmet mike.

“We’re working our way up, solrocka!”

Leske says, “You think so? Everd’s not a great driver.” His caution is Kit’s first warning of trouble.

“Don’t tell me this. Puts a damper on my natural optimism. Void, I’m why you know Proving rankings.”

“Self-preservation,” Leske mutters.

 _Okay, I love yelling about Provings,_ Kit thinks. _Sue me. I might have an onnie you’d get._

“Not worried, Leske,” Kit says. When he snorts, she insists, “Not worried! Not our job. We get him on the track. Our specialty: convincing people.”

“Can’t win the race if we kill him,” Leske says, also saying, _Which Everd will know, which makes threats less effective._ Kit suppresses a surge of annoyance.

“Come on, duster! Why spoil my mood? Got this!”

“Optimism is one thing. Promising Beraht something we can’t deliver is something else.”

 _Why the fuck is he worried?_ Kit mentally runs through that last meeting, remembers a thug’s knowing smirk on their way out and Beraht’s false air.

“It will be fine,” Kit says, knowing she’s being stubborn. What else can they do? Beraht is the Boss.

###

The thing about the Orzammar Mining Company Holdings, LLC, is that it’s not holdings. It’s not a _company_. At its heart, it’s not even a city. No matter how fancy the carvings get, no matter what embellishments they put on the rock, no matter what fancy wood furniture they import and set on the stone floors, the whole lyrium-addled place is a mine. Orzammar Mountain was solid rock when dwarves arrived centuries ago. Millennia, whatever, nobles shouldn’t tell Kit she can’t get educated and then criticize her for lack of knowledge. They arrived with big two-handed pickaxes and dwarven ingenuity. Dwarves hacked away at the mountain, one chip of rock at a time, walking forward and tossing rock back.

So every wall in Orzammar is the bones of Orzammar Mountain. Words can’t change that fact: Kit’s family hovel in Dust Town is as much the Mountain as the fucking Diamond Quarter estates. They’re carved from the same rock.

Kit and the platonic love of her life Leske arrive at the stadium maybe a half-hour after their meeting with Beraht. Those rich red neon-gas lights line the base of the walls, rising into runes for ‘tradition’ and ‘Proving,’ but she can’t scoff at it here. This is a great dwarven tradition, at least a century old. Paragons, what Kit wouldn’t give to compete here. Even if Aeducan, Vollney, Gavorn, and the rest hand her her ass, she’d accept it with glee. The space where it’s held deserves glitz. Judging by the lack of crowd in the entryway, the Proving won’t start for a few hours.

These days, the big money for Orzammar is in lyrium. There’s no lyrium here, probably never was, but rich marbles of silverite ripple through the stands. That’s still valuable, but it was never mined: proof of the power of dwarven tradition. The idea of mining here fills even a Duster like Kit with dread.

After sharing a few glances and tiny gestures, they go back to the dressing rooms. Kit knows back entries into the stands like she knows her bike. The dressing rooms are another matter, but to her surprise Leske has them covered here. He knocks on one wrong door, paper in hand as if he’s delivering a message. Which technically they are. (Shit, by the blue-and-silver of his uniform it’s Gavorn! Elel Gavorn? He got a lucky break last Proving and handed Aeducan his ass! Proof of the Ancestors’ favor if ever Kit had seen it. Shit shit shit…) Elel isn’t thrilled but points them to Everd’s door.

Everd’s half-armored, with half of a bottle of clear blue-label spirits on a wooden table next to him. When Kit claps him on the shoulder, he _hooms_ awake and the stench of alcohol comes off him in a wave. He lists toward her hand, staring at it with glazed eyes. Not the first time a mark would play drunk. Kit doesn’t get concerned until she sees the seal to this bottle on the desk.

The bottle started _full_.

Kit’s no lightweight, but blue-label spirits can compromise her judgment in one glass, destroy her control in two, and black out the night in three. This guy might drink heavy, but after half a bottle—four or five glasses!—she wonders how he’s still breathing.

“Leske,” she says, holding out her hand. He slaps a vial into it, then shoves himself under one arm while Kit slings Everd’s other arm over her shoulders. They hoist him up and drag him to the sink in the corner of the room. Leske tilts his head back too easily, and Kit uncorks the vial and dumps the contents down his gullet. Well, not far down. As soon as the bitter chemical touches the back of Everd’s throat, he throws up. Which is the idea. Kit gets out of the way fast, supporting most of his weight while Leske points his head so the stream of vomit hits the sink. The smell of acid and alcohol is so disgusting Kit swallows sympathetic bile.

About halfway through, Everd tries to talk, but Leske tangles his fingers tight in Everd’s hair to keep his head pointed at the sink until his stomach is empty. When he’s done, he pats Leske on the shoulder, saying “Thanks, thanks.” Then he turns to Kit and says, “But you’re a buzz killer!”

“My _friend_ saved your life, driver.” Leske looks mad, but Kit waves it off.

“Chill, Duster, he’s drunk.”

They seat him while the vomit drains down the sink. Everd fails to focus on them, repeating, “Who are you again?” at various volumes while Kit and Leske consult.

“Is this normal for him?” Leske says dubiously. “Berserker drivers get fucking drunk.”

“That’s a _new_ half-bottle of blue-label spirits. Even losing half down the drain, his blood’s too flammable for practical application.” She picks up the seal and flicks it at Leske. He catches it, examines it, and tosses it onto the rubbish heap.

“Maybe we should set him on fire. Fuck.”

“I’m not using my lighter in here. Maybe he’ll sober up fast?”

Everd, who has been twisting his head loosely back and forth to watch them, starts a laughing fit.

“Great, a jolly drunk,” Leske says.

“Shit, duster. You said ‘jolly’ without irony.” Kit watches Everd laugh, her hopes for a future going up in flames.

“I drive stone-cold sober,” he says between breaths. “I never berserker, don’t need it. Pure skill!” He shouts the last words.

“No wonder you suck,” Leske says, and that stops his laughter. “Don’t you know alcohol is the basis for _traditional_ driving and fighting?”

“You’ve got nug cum in your—shit, you don’t even have a beard.” Everd focuses on Leske, and Kit marvels at the filth that rolls off supposedly civilized tongues. Good one, though. “My method is perfectly… precisely… it’s great, and it will get better! The Paragons favor dedication.”

“If you’re against going into a Proving drunk, why the fuck are you drunk a few hours before a Proving?” Kit says. _Noble logic, she’s sure._

Everd leans toward them conspiratorially. Leske catches his shoulder to stop him from face-planting on the stone. “They’re coming for me,” he says.

“Correction: we’re here for you. But that wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t drunk, solrocka.”

“You can die in a Proving, you know? But I’m a driver. I drive. No choice. Well, I won’t do it.”

“You just said the ancestors—!” Leske says. Everd gazes blearily at him, smiling sweetly enough to give Kit a toothache while Leske fumes wordlessly.

“Beraht’s cleared the field,” Kit says. “You’ve got this in the bag.”

“No, nonononono, I really don’t.”

“What the Void is the problem?” Leske demands.

“I’m drunk.”

Leske huffs. “That’s because you’re drinking!”

“You’re telling me, duster.” The insult trips off Everd’s tongue, and Kit moves to keep it out of his mouth for good, but Leske catches her fist.

“Kit! Kit, don’t hit him, we need him! Kit!”

“Yeah, Yeah, I hear you Leske.” Kit pulls her arm free from his, puts her hands up to show peaceful intentions. Then she clocks him anyway, quick, before putting her hands up again. _I just did it once. He’s still alive._

“Paragons, you can hit!” He’s reeling even more than before. “What’s the problem? You were calling each other – the d-word, and I thought…”

“Means something else coming from you, Shiner.”

He flusters up but doesn’t rage properly. “Point taken.” Jolly drunk indeed, if he can’t fight at fighting words. No wonder he doesn’t berserker.

Leske prompts him with the patience of a Paragon: “You were explaining why you’re drunk?”

“I’d lose that race. Beraht would kill me. But also,” and here Everd pulls himself up into a parody of dignity, “cheating is illegal in the Provings.”

“Beraht will kill everyone in this room, so spare me your crisis of conscience,” Kit says. “You’re not cheating. Others are cheating for you.”

“Doesn’t matter. Messes with the will of the Ancestors.”

“Let me tell you why that’s nugshit,” Kit says. “If Provings reflect the Ancestors’ will, then one mechanism of their will is cheating. What are the dwarven virtues?”

“Honor,” he says, and blinks.

“I had that coming. And?”

“Honor? Oh! Tradition!”

“Fuck tradition,” she says. “You’re drunk so I’ll make allowances. Ingenuity. You may think it’s a Smithing thing, but Dusters have it too. We’re clever because we’re fucking dwarves, and the Paragons will show favor when you win. Or fuck, they would have if you hadn’t fucking poisoned yourself.” She turns to Leske. “Why am I trying to convince a drunk driver?”

“I was just wondering that,” Leske says. “Okay, no, I was thinking you should shut the fuck up before you make me barf.”

“I’m serious. I could win by the Ancestors’ will.”

“They’d never let you enter, solrocka.”

“You don’t want it,” says Everd. “You think it’s a ride, but it’s not. There’s a reason we go atgatt. You could die.”

 _This again,_ thinks Kit. “No one’s died in a Proving since”—

“My warrior. The beast couldn’t tell him from a darkspawn on a Proving field! They pitied him. My friend was a pile of giblets, and they pitied the berserker who murdered him.” Everd stands, roaring now, “I will NEVER BERSERKER!”

“Sit down, we’re not asking you to berserker,” Leske says, shaking his head. To Kit’s surprise, Everd sits.

“Is he in the Proving today?” Kit asks.

“No, they banned Oghren from the Provings. He should be banned from Orzammar.” Everd is having trouble holding his head up.

 _To the Surface?_ Kit shivers. “Look, Oghren’s not getting you today.”

“Duh,” Everd mumbles.

“Leske, thoughts?”

“I’d want this Oghren dude between me and darkspawn. For our work? No sodding way. You need someone with the right pressure on the knife, not someone who’ll turn every target into, what’d he say? Giblets?”

“I’m not recruiting here!” Okay, maybe Kit’s shouting, but she’s losing patience. “What about your drunk cures? He’s a mess, and our job is to get him on the track.”

It’s a testament to their friendship that Leske ignores Kit’s tone. “I know cures for hangover misery, but none for coordination and shit.”

“Well, I’m not wasting time on that,” Kit says.

“Is he really that bad?” Leske asks, eyeing Everd hopefully.

He’s really that bad. Kit pulls her dagger, grazing his inner wrist and elbow, a seam in his gear, and his neck.

Everd taps the knife away after it touches him. She’s not even going fast, but she doesn’t draw blood.

“Hey, don’t,” he says. “You could kill me.”

“Damn right I could. Stupid fucking Shiner privilege. Know the opportunities I would risk for a chance at Paragon approval? Trashing a relic because it matches one on your mantle.”

Everd waves expansively: “Be my guest.”

“What?” Kit’s mind screams twenty things at once: it’s a great idea, it’s the worst idea, and everything in between.

Leske tips his head, considering Kit and Everd. “Not bad.”

“Leske…”

“He can’t hold himself up, let alone keep a bike on a Provings course. His helmets have dark visors to hide our faces. You’re close enough to the right height and build no one will look past the flashy uniform.”

“No chance, Leske. What do we tell his Roar?”

Everd blinks and focuses on Kit. “Roar?”

“Fuck,” Kit explains. “Slang: warrior, rior, roar. Get it together.”

“Oh, Raneka,” he says. “She’s great!”

Leske shrugs and continues: “So we convince _her_ to roar. Grab your dreams by the horn. I can get the full lineup so you know what to expect. It’s fucked to not allow Dusters on the track. So do it.”

“Leske, it’s a death sentence if we get caught. Blasphemy and conspiring.”

“When have we ever gotten caught? Stone, Kit, you’ll hand these Shiners their asses.”

Kits grins. “I will, won’t I?”

“Hell, yeah, solrocka. But it’s up to you. Consider this, though: enough money’s riding on this Beraht will take care of us when this loser doesn’t show up, and we don’t have other options.”

Risk probable death to avoid certain death? Sometimes her priorities are fucked. But she risks her life every day: A mark could spring a lethal surprise. A noble could clear out the Carta tunnels while she’s on duty. She and Leske can’t afford elfroot from the Surface, and they don’t mingle with doctors. Why not die daring something impossible?

Everd snores.

“Can I please kill him?” Kit asks almost fondly.

“Unfortunately, no,” Leske says after pretending to give it thought. “Hard to believe he raced the Proving while dead. You’d be too spry for a corpse.”

“Damn.” Kit kicks the stone, which fail to move let alone puff satisfyingly. “I can’t use my bike when I do this.”

“You’re doing it!” Leske pumps his fist. “Guard him! Don’t hurt him!” Leske scrambles for the door.

“Find out if I can try his bike ahead of time,” she says before he slips out. Meanwhile, Kit changes from her beaten brown leather jacket and second-hand underlying armor to the black kevlar with flashy orange Proving shoulder stripes, orange sides, and an orange belt.

“I’ll be visible for miles,” she mutters to the unconscious driver.

###

As Kit’s checking the armor, Leske ducks through the door with Everd’s roar, Raneka, whose armor matches Everd’s.

Raneka looks from Kit to Everd and back. “Who’re you?”

“A friend,” Kit emphasizes in her most reassuring voice, “representing an interested party. We want Everd to win, but he got drunk. If we can only manage an illusion, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Raneka opens her mouth again, but Leske cuts her off before she can object. “If Everd doesn’t race today, the people whose interests we represent will make sure none of us have a good end.” Leske tilts his head. “That includes you and your friend here.” Kit’s not sure Raneka is an accomplice yet, but she waits for Raneka’s response. Her mouth is still open, but she snaps it shut and nods.

Kit strikes Everd’s signature pose: fist on hip, other hand thrust forward with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Well, your friend looks like him,” she says as Leske dumps a pile of full wood-pulp papers onto the desk, shoving the half-empty bottle aside. “Doesn’t sound like him, though.”

Leske gets out a schedule, ignoring her. “In 10 minutes, get 30 minutes on the track, then they repair it starting an hour before the race.”

“Nugs. Well, who’s in today’s race?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> atgatt - dwarven for 'all the gear all the time'
> 
> Other projects languished when I posted weekly, so I'll try every-other-Thursday instead.
> 
> Send love to my betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! I keep all responsibility for any mistakes or blunders.


	4. Proving Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason we go atgatt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> atgatt - dwarven for 'all the gear all the time'

Kit catches her own reflection in Raneka’s mirrored visor: her smirking head sticking out of Diamond-quarter armor. The runic brand on her right cheek clashes with the newness of her armor, the orange-and-black house colors brilliantly displayed. Kit makes a face, puts her helmet on, and closes the visor with a snap.

“Hey,” Everd says, waking up, “hey, you’re me. How are you… me?”

Kit says, “I’m you to save your drunk ass. Any quirks to your bike?”

“Nothing serious,” Everd says, “but you have to…” He waves his hands precisely, but without context the gesture looks half-obscene. He shakes his head and says, “I’ll show you,” trying and failing to stand.

“Fade no, solrocka, I’m you, remember? Don’t mess this up, or we’ll both be found deep. Leske, stop Everd from shitting the stash before I’m back.”

“I’ll take you to the garage,” Raneka says, worried. “I’m his mechanic, too.”

“Wait a minute!” Everd breaks in. “Wait, don’t change my bike!”

“If your bike’s any good, it won’t need changing,” Kit says, smiling behind her visor.

She walks out the door with Raneka a step behind her, muttering directions to the garage and to avoid people who know Everd. They enter the Proving track at the top of the stands. Running someone over is refreshingly unlikely: the seating is high enough that if spectators fall, they’ll land dead. Kit traces the route from this vantage point while Raneka waits, taking deep breaths. The turns and obstacles are standard in the streets. The only thing she’s never done is the wet, clumpy black sand.

Kit heads downstairs to Everd’s stone stall in the garage. The bike is orange-and-black to match her gear. The oil stains and elbow room are a blessing, one easy thing today.

Kit does a quick check of the bike. She checks the tires first, making sure there’s no cracks or metal in them and the tread isn’t too worn. She squeezes and bounces them, but Raneka produces a pocket gauge to measure air pressure. The bearings have tight seals, and the wheels don’t slop side-to-side.

Kit adjusts the sag, rebound, and compression dampening of the suspension, and it reminds her of getting to know a new lover: she knows bikes, but now she’s getting to know _this_ bike. Next she checks and tightens fasteners, plugs, and cables. She adjusts the levers and pedals for her inches-longer legs and shorter torso for maximum performance and control. Raneka’s pegs behind hers don’t get pedals; she’ll concentrate on balance and mayhem.

“No signal lights or running lights?” Kit says in surprise.

Raneka laughs. “You’re not on a Deep Roads expedition.”

“You mean Everd doesn’t take this bike?”

She laughs again, shaking her head, hair moving in waves around her head. “This bike is racing-only.”

“Who neutered the Provings?” Kit says as she checks her fuel, oil, and coolant levels.

Raneka shrugs. “We strive for the blessing of the Ancestors,” she says without irony, and Kit almost likes her.

###

They walk the bike to where Proving drivers and their roars are warming up. Everd isn’t the only one with top-of-the-line gear and bike. They have their colors, too. Rajamic Aeducan in purple and yellow, Bemot in his classic lime green and white, Haver in cherry-red-and-white, Vollney in yellow-and-black, Gavorn in blue-and-silver, and Turin in orange-and-white… All have the best armor and bikes, the kind Kit drools over whenever she sneaks into a garage on a Diamond Quarter mission. _What’d you expect, duster?_

Aeducan’s roar, Gorim Saelac, is fine-tuning the bike on the sidelines. She’d seen this bike when she talked business with a member of his household. It’s tuned to the track, with a long-travel suspension, good dig on the tires, and enough power but not so much Aeducan loses control. She wishes she’d trashed it in his garage, but his family has the lichen to replace the damn thing. The easy banter Aeducan and Gorim have is like Kit and Leske. She won’t shout, ‘Not so different!’ and expose their plans, but tempting.

While Raneka makes nice, Kit putters around to learn the clutch, hoping other drivers will think Everd’s testing some last-minute adjustment. Then Raneka hops on and holds tight, and Kit revs her engine, testing the buck against her brakes. More power than she’s used to. She controls her rev to get a better sense of how much torque will get her the response she needs. _Out of my league._

“Own it, don’t push it,” Kit mumbles. Raneka smacks her on the shoulder, a sweet nudge through the armor.

“Hit me back, on the shoulder,” Raneka says. “It’s what Everd does.” Kit obeys, like patting herself on an extra back, then settles in and takes off.

Kit runs through the track a few times at a casual speed, letting Raneka tap and aim at the targets with the other roars. She takes them through sharper turns at near-top speed, getting used to how Raneka changes the bike’s balance, holding Kit by the waist. Raneka’s experience helps them get in sync quickly, but their time is up far too soon.

###

After the practice race, Kit asks for changes, including higher-friction brake pads on the front, and Raneka doesn’t blink.

“I can get them from Thohud,” she says, nodding. “They keep spares, and he owes me a favor.”

Kit’s never heard of him, but she nods anyway. She sweats while Raneka’s gone, but when she returns no guards arrest Kit for her intended blasphemy.

The time till the race ticks away as Raneka and Kit work on the bike, saying as little as possible to hide Kit’s identity from those walking by the open stall. In the Deep Roads, drivers and roars maintain their own equipment or they’re screwed. Better to face a berserker in full rage than a horde of darkspawn without a bike to outrun them.

“Why didn’t you want your friend at your back?” Raneka says, nervously glancing toward the dressing rooms. _Think Leske’ll kill Everd? Miss the point much?_

Kit shrugs. “Leske with electronics could astound a master but—and I say this in complete but platonic love—doesn’t know a carburetor from an engine.” She shakes her head. “I’d give him make-work for his role to be plausible. More work for me, you know?”

Raneka nods and relaxes. Kit’s just made dusters into people, but she might not survive this race without Raneka’s trust.

###

Kit jumps when the announcement blares over the loudspeakers:

“We hold the Proving Races by ancient tradition.” The announcer up on the stone dais wears a smart suit, no tie, at odds with the grime of the track below and the chaos in the packed stands surrounding the track. Fans sport the colors of their favorite team. “Today’s race is Tandem Fighting.” So many people watching the racers. Watching her.

The announcer’s tiny microphone is invisible from here, but the techs are broadcasting his voice to her headset, set to the official frequency. Fans also scan the radio range, looking for team communications to hear the racers swear and catcall each other.

This part of the tradition isn’t available to Kit. Leske turned off her helmet’s mic back in Everd’s room so she can swear during the race without revealing her identity. She switches to Raneka’s frequency anyway. An echo of the announcer filters through her helmet from the track’s external speakers.

“Ancestors reveal their favor today in honor of our visiting Grey Warden.” The announcer gestures, and an impossibly tall, lanky man catches Kit’s eye. That’s all he calls him, the Grey Warden. He steps forward and nods solemnly while the crowd cheers. _Any excuse for a circus._ The Warden has black hair, his beard short for warrior caste. _Wardens must be warrior caste, right?_ He’s wearing mirrored silver-frame shades and dented but shining silver-and-blue Deep Roads armor, good against bike accidents and most gunshots. Gavorn house borrowed their colors when some ancestor joined, a great honor. The Warden isn’t as flashy as Gavorn, but the griffin design etched into the chest plate makes a classy touch.

He’s too tall and thin, but he looks ready to kick darkspawn ass. _Where’d they dig this guy up?_ Kit remembers telling her last mark how tall the Surface races are, so maybe ‘digging up’ isn’t right. _As if Surfacers fight darkspawn unless there’s a Blight._ Kit assumes Grey Wardens were dwarven.

Whatever. Kit won’t see him again: She needs to concentrate. This race could advance her career… or get her killed.

The announcer continues: “Valos atredum,” and then for the Warden, “Ancestors favor the contestants.”

 _Impossible in shape: the Ancestors only favor the winner. Still, nice sentiment._ Kit revs the engine to let the bike rock.

Half of the dozen competitors start shit-talking over the open channel instead of focusing on the race. Others stare at the gate, both feet on the ground, butt down and elbows up. She copies the stance, feels the readiness in it.

“Hey, Everd. You turning over a new leaf?” Someone razzes. _Oh, Paragons, I recognize that voice._ She knows it from multiple ‘how does it feel’ interviews after Mainar won yet another Proving. He’s spaced away from Aeducan so they won’t run each other over at the start. She flips a quick bird that way without breaking her gaze from the starting gate. “Whoa, fine,” he says, laughing. “Fuck you, too.” Raneka taps Kit on the shoulder again.

Kit focuses on the gate, wondering if she could pop a wheel to get over as it falls. It’s made of good Orzammar alloy, no flimsy Surface crap for Provings. Never seen it, so probably forbidden.

Rules. Always rules for the damn nobles.

The gate drops. She pushes her bike forward and gets her feet on the pegs as fast as she can but settles in the mid-back of the pack.

Right out of the gate, they motor up stairs to a short drop-off like you’d find in the Deep Roads. The whole mess acts as a ramp with a landing on thick, loose dirt. She has space in front of her. She’ll close that gap soon, but for now –

A lot happens when they land, and it’s all Kit can do to dodge the bodies. As soon as their wheels touch the dirt, there’s a flash of light and two bikes ahead of her run into each other, skittering sideways and sliding retrograde through the pack as they slow and stop. The tipped bike with riders in red-and-white lands in front of a bike done up in orange-and-white, whose driver flips over both bikes while the orange-clad roar, a Turin, slides sideways in the pack toward Kit, who barely dodges her helmet, Raneka leaning with her to make the sudden turns work. At the same time, Vollney in yellow-and-black from the original crash skids right violently and slides under the tires of the forest-green-clad opponents just ahead of Kit on the right. After missing the orange helmet, Kit dodges left to avoid getting caught in their unpredictable limbs and wheels.

“Holy shit! That cleared a third of the field,” Raneka crows. “Great dodging.” Less crowded on the track now. Raneka squeezes off a shot at their first target, but Kit doesn’t know if she hits.

“Lucky,” Kit grunts as she blasts past a pair in violent purple on the straight-away in the wet dirt ridges left by the four drivers in front.

That roar throws something Raneka bats away, inches from Kit’s head. Crackling electrical nano activates uselessly behind her. Kit cuts them off, spraying mud. More nano activates, thrown by Raneka, and in the mud it finds its mark. A few seconds later, weakness throttles the engine and the violent-purple bike drops back.

Kit’s watching positions for the next obstacle. There’s a staircase coming up here… There’s a wide board on the stairs! _What are they trying to pull? Wait!_ Everyone is crowding onto the board not off it, forcing little drops in speed. Kit grins under her helmet, gunning up the stairs and passing two contenders – third place – but her front tire slips at the top. It takes all her strength and skill – and some of Raneka’s – to keep the bike upright. Her thighs will tell her about it tomorrow. The paved roads here are less grippy than the mud in Dusttown. _Shouldn’t the Deep Roads be like neglected Dusttown?_ _Welcome to the rarified air of the Provings._ She recovers and gets into position for the rails coming up.

The track finds the rails from mining the cavern, carting rock out. To Kit’s surprise everyone handles these well, maybe from the Deep Roads. They cross suddenly, at a sharp angle. Kit keeps an eye on the drivers crowding her and weaves aggressively.

“Rude,” says Raneka, but they need to win, and buying space between her and the other competitors will help. She’s saying, ‘Give me space so we don’t wipe out like those other poor bastards.’ But Kit steadies out, and Raneka squeezes off more shots. This time, Kit sees Gavorn’s blue markers splat among the second series of targets right after Raneka’s orange paint, but she’s thinking about turning in sand as Raneka grunts, “Two.”

The next section was once stairs down to a pit-style square, but they’ve hauled in sand to fill in the square. Kit doesn’t push as hard as she could over the rails, and Ginda Garvorn’s blue-and-silver bike passes her. It’s worth it: she can watch how the three in front of her handle sand. They lean back heading into it, keeping off their front tires, and Kit does the same. Raneka stands and leans back, too.

Paragons, this crap is loose and slick compared to mud. Heavy but not sticky. The front tire of Gavorn’s bike hits a sharp dip which flips her whole bike endo. Kit is far enough right she only blinks, but it serves as a warning. When the back wheel hits ruts Kit uses all her strength to balance the front as high as she can. The bike sprays sand, creates new ruts. On a turn, she tilts too far but kicks the dirt with her inside leg to get upright again. That also turns her faster. _Damn could get mired fast._ Kit pulls her foot onto the peg, but the rut is too deep. She kicks her leg up to not lose a boot, still leaning into Raneka.

She’s concentrating so hard on her own bike, she doesn’t notice another pair passing until they cut her off, the spray of sand making it hard to see. Kit steers by memory and feel, keeping that front end up while Raneka swears profusely.

“Go back to the Surface, you Stone-blind nug-fucker!” Raneka says, adding when the spray ends, “Paragons, I hate sand.”

At the edge of the pit, the sand slides on stone, making the track even slicker for a few dozen meters. A passing bike skids laid flat, forcing Kit to break. Kit’s back end kicks as they pass, but she grips her heels together, gooses power, and manhandles the bike into place. Raneka leans well, but she’s concentrating on shooting. Mainer flips them off and makes it past them and one other, snagging second behind Aeducan.

Raneka tells her, “Damn it, missed, still two. Don’t have enough edge to lend a bonus. Lost a couple places in the sand, even with Gavorn mired. Fifth again.”

Kit leans into the next right turn, setting her tires at the base of a low curved stone wall and speeds up without popping a tire. She swings her butt left and sticks her right foot out, pushing on the left peg.

“The fuck you doing?” Raneka sputters, but she follows Kit’s lead and doesn’t throw the bike off too far. Their right metal boots spark against the stone. Better than tearing sole off her own boots. _Damn, I want a pair of these._

Other riders fail to use the wall, and she maintains a faster speed. Second place, just ahead of Mainer. _How could they miss this advantage? How many die in the Deep Roads because they don’t use dusters?_

Aeducan and Gorim are the only team ahead of them. She speeds up a short flight that drops far to a layer of red-dyed sand, meant to imitate lava and give the proceedings class. She passes Aeducan on the stairs, leans forward, and stands just before launch to get the most distance. As she launches off the top of the stairs, she sees children in the audience and revs the engine for the hell of it. The kids’ looks of wonder slide into awe.

She’s their hero, getting ahead of Aeducan if only for a moment.

They land, Kit standing and sitting with Raneka as they absorb the impact. The final banner before them, a front tire at her heel, she opens it up, blasting across the finish line just ahead of Aeducan.

She’s done it! Against all odds, she’s won the Proving. _A duster! If only they knew._ But they never will. That’s the entire point. She grins behind her helmet. Kit doesn’t care. _She_ knows; that will have to be enough.

She throws the kickstand, accepts a fistbump from Aeducan without fan-squeeing, offers one to Haver, the third-place winner, and heads for the dais to accept the favor of the Ancestors.

Something shifts for Kit. _Shit!_ _The Ancestors can favor a duster._ If that’s possible, what else can she do? Could she become the Paragon of Thugs and start her own house? Impossible, but she grins at the idea. She’ll bring it up with Leske over a pint later. She wishes Leske were tailing after her instead of Raneka.

As she climbs to the announcer and Grey Warden, a commotion spreads from the edge of the track. Just as Kit picks out Leske and a second figure entering the arena, all heads turn to her. That second figure—

Everd is leaning against a doorway, pointing a finger at her and ranting. Kit makes a mental note to be careful what she wishes for. Leske is shoving him back toward the dressing rooms.

It’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endo – to flip ‘end over end’ on a motorcycle or bike
> 
> In the next chapter, I crack canon for my own dark purposes. (Though not evil, just dark.)
> 
> Heaps of love for Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3, who beta'd this chapter! I don't always heed their wisdom, so yell at me, not them, about mistakes and problematic content.


	5. Duncan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Duncan saves Kit Brosca's life, and why he can't save everyone. Plus hazards of conscripting the most dangerous person in a city-state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the canon isn’t so much loose as cracked.
> 
> Dialect note: Kit drops the subjects of her sentences whenever she can. It’s a Dust Town thing in this 'verse. 
> 
> Huge thanks as always to my excellent betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark! You are amazing!

 

Duncan adjusts his shades to see what’s gained everyone’s attention. A drunken dwarf stumbles onto the track. Another dwarf, dark-haired, is shoving him toward the door.

The Proving Master mutters to the guards standing behind them: “I want the driver and accomplices in the judgment chamber.” Some guards leave and two flank the winner as the Proving Master puts his showmanship back on.

“If that’s Everd,” he says over the speakers in a scandalized tone, “then who’s wearing his colors?” All eyes turn toward the first-place contestant frozen at the top of the stairs. “Remove your helmet, Proven.”

The driver hesitates. Duncan feels a pang of regret. He’d been looking forward to meeting them. Duncan is no stranger to the Deep Roads and knows a good driver when he sees one. This one raced magnificently, making up for an average performance from their Warrior. Dwarven tradition might demand discarding that skill.

Then again, Grey Wardens have a habit of picking up good discards.

An orange flag, clutched by a young girl, flutters in the stands, distracting the driver out of their hesitation. They slowly remove the helmet. There’s a brand on her right cheek, less important tattoos around one eye.

She turns, smirking, to the guards, who take her so fast she drops Everd’s helmet. Everyone roars, shouting their outrage, demanding her head and calling her a blasphemer. Duncan follows the neat white ponytail through the doorway before he loses her.

###

The tunnel hollows the sound out and muffles it in Kit’s ears. Sounds like a dull, echoing roar. This passage is not as rough as Carta tunnels. Still the same dark stone with rich silverite running through. _What will happen to Leske and Rica?_ Raneka crosses her mind, too, but not marched up these halls. _I won’t make it out alive._ There’s open seating to the bronto ring. She’d seen others on the Proving track with an angry bronto or twelve, sometimes a blade to be sporting. The crowd that loved her upset would watch her trampled.

###

Duncan follows in the wake of the Proving Master as if he’d been invited and belongs there. They enter a large room, empty except a long table at one end with seven chairs facing the larger room. A guard sets a single chair facing the table. Behind the table four nobles argue. Duncan leans against the left wall. Guards march in with both the Dust Town driver and the dark-haired dwarf. The Proving Master nods and leaves as the nobles’ voices rise.

“I don’t give a pile of deepstalker shit about _her_ ,” a deep voice says. “We must find the person responsible.”

“Responsible?!? Whoever put her up to it, she is the one who defied tradition! We must make an example of her!” Duncan struggles to place everyone from his brief introductions at his welcome ceremony. This is Bandelor’s son. _What was his first name?_

“No, her boss must be the example,” replies the first. “Otherwise they’ll send someone better at concealing the switch.”

“We must disavow any knowledge she was a Brand.” The others ignore this man as the soldiers march the subject of their conversation to the chair.

“She’s Carta. Her family and friends are Carta,” the first noble continues. “We find out who they are and connect the dots until we find the person in charge.”

She stopped being a person when they saw the brand. A guard places a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off to sit. The guards split, marching to stand at attention on each wall. One guard stands on either side of Duncan and the other dwarf they’d captured. This dark-haired dwarf leans against the wall next to him, watching weapons and exits.

“Excellent,” says the ass-covering dwarf, changing tactics. One of the less intelligent Helmis, Duncan’s pretty sure. “Who is she?”

From this angle, Duncan’s not sure who answers. “A guard placed her as a Brosca, probably Kit, and her accomplice as Leske, unidentified family.” Not a deep or female voice, so Bandelor, Jr. again.

“Accomplice,” Kit snorts. She leans against the simple stone-hewn chair, spreading her knees and propping her hands on her hips to take up as much room as possible.

“What does she do for the Carta?” Helmi’s glance sticks on Kit.

“Intimidation?” The only female noble shrugs. “They’ve proven nothing until now.”

Kit smiles a cocky, dangerous smile at the nobles, who watch her with a blend of disgust and nerves.

Pieces fall into place for Duncan: general worry, complaints about Carta ‘interference’, and frequent rude comments about Casteless. The Assembly fears the Carta more than they did a few years ago. They must be building power faster than the Assembly can adapt.

Duncan considers his choices. Her driving skills would be useful when they return to the Deep Roads, and he needs someone who can inspire fear, someone who can face bad odds with aplomb. He watches her as the nobles argue. She’s weighing her options. Practical.

“What do want to know?” Kit’s low growl cuts through the argument. They look affronted a Casteless would address them.

“You will not speak until spoken to!” The one with the low voice says. Duncan’s never met this man.

Kit snorts. “What’ll do? Behead me? Quicker death than brontos, for sure. Trying to be helpful, here. Need information, and I’m wondering what.”

Duncan catches Leske’s frown, but Kit ignores it, focusing on her opponents.

The four nobles exchange glances, the middle two swiveling their heads back and forth. That glance establishes consensus. They sit, the man with the lowest voice in the nicer middle seat. The other chairs have shorter backs, but they all have stone-hewn arms and geometric inlays. He must be the highest-ranking dwarf here. There are three scattered, empty chairs. Perhaps they couldn’t get everyone on short notice.

The woman, right of the nice seat, asks, “Who ordered you to race?”

“No one, technically.”

“You little shit. You know what she means,” Helmi says.

“What’s it to Stone if I snitch?” Kit asks.

“‘Darkspawn love scrabbling in the dark,’” grumbles the leader, a dwarven proverb about undermining legitimate work.

“She’s no sense of honor,” agrees Helmi.

The woman between them sneers. “What do you expect? She’s Casteless.”

“What do I need with honor?” Kit says loudly, leaning forward and giving her vicious smile. “Will fill my belly? Keep me safe? Because every day in Dust Town is a struggle for food and safety for me and mine.”

“Don’t feed us shit and call it nug. You know your way around a bike,” says the high-ranking one.

Kit shrugs. “Mechanic for the Carta is a living.”

Duncan wishes he could snap a picture of the study in dwarven affront. Mechanic is a Caste-mandated job. _Does sharing of Caste services extend to Casteless?_

They’re lost on how to handle her. “Who gives you orders?” says Bandelor Jr., to the left on the table.

“I get my orders from the Boss.” _Sweet Maker, this one’s got sass._

He snaps, “Yes, who is that?”

“Is that all need to know?”

The nobles glance at each other and share the tiniest of nods.

“That is all,” the leader says.

“Charges and sentence am I facing?”

“You’ve tampered with a sacred Proving. The penalty is death.” The leader bites the words out.

Kit sneers. “Also, the Void is that duster doing here? Leske, right?” Kit twitches her head to the other dwarf. “Paid to keep Everd in his room, didn’t know why.” Kit turns to him. “Did a piss-poor job, and won’t get the balance.” The dwarf is furious. Duncan had thought them working together, but perhaps not?

“Hit me in the fucking head,” Leske growls at Kit. He looks pained.

“He’s clearly Carta,” starts the leader, but the noblewoman interrupts.

“He didn’t tamper in the Proving.” A voice of reason. _I need to meet her properly if I can._

The leader isn’t dissuaded yet. “Restricting a racer to his room isn’t tampering?”

“You saw him,” she says. _What_ _was her name?_ _Damn._ “Everd was flat drunk. This dwarf’s actions wouldn’t have changed the outcome without her joining the race.” She flicks her hand dismissively.

The leader grunts, conceding the point. “He’ll still serve time.”

“Sixty days seems appropriate,” Helmi suggests.

She nods and turns back to Kit.

“Then here are my terms: don’t put me in the bronto ring. Make my sentence a year or less. Cut that asshole’s sentence in half. Doesn’t know shit. I’ll tell you who sent me.”

Leske mutters, “The Carta will _gut_ you, Kit.”

Duncan leans closer, losing track of the Proving Council. “She’s dead no matter what?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. The boss has contacts in the prison, must have set her up. She’s doing this to save her sister, maybe me. It might not help me, but her sister’s golden.” He glances at Duncan. “She fights, too. She’s a terror in a fight.”

“Five years,” says the leader.

Duncan steps away from the wall. “If I may speak before the Proving Council?”

“Of course,” says the leader attentively.

“I intend to recruit this prisoner for the Wardens.”

Shock replaces respect in the room, followed by anger.

“What?” shouts Kit.

“This Casteless criminal? A Warden?” the leader says.

“It’s not unprecedented,” Duncan says, refusing to wince. “We have recruited skilled Casteless before. And as for criminal, it doesn’t make her any less capable of fighting darkspawn.”

“No,” says the noble woman.  

“Absolutely not,” says Helmi.

“The Wardens will frequent Orzammar with Ferelden’s support,” Bandelor Jr. says. “Everyone saw her face. It would set a precedent.”

“If she returns, dwarves will see a Warden,” Duncan says.

“Thank you, Surfacer,” Kit says, piling venom into her voice and glaring at the dark-hair dwarf, “but got this handled.”

“I invoke the Right of Conscription,” Duncan intones. Everyone in the room looks slapped. Bandelor Jr.’s jaw snaps shut. Duncan had hoped not to play this card here, but at least the reaction is amusing.

“The Void is that?” Kit demands.

“You have invoked the right of Grey Wardens to recruit anyone they need to fight darkspawn,” the woman says. She surges to her feet and points at Duncan. “You are using it as a hammer!” She must be from a Smithing house.

Duncan shrugs. “We lose both drivers and fighters too often. Kit shows promise you propose to lock away for years.”

She sits, and the others relax into their chairs, thoughtful. He’s reminded them how much Wardens sacrifice for Orzammar, _and_ how dangerous darkspawn are.

“Don’t get a say?” Kit whines.

“You have no more choice than we do, Casteless,” says Bandelor Jr.

She looks desperate enough to run, but before Duncan can worry she says, “Is a death sentence, Warden,” loud enough for the nobles.

 _Little do you know._ He nods. “Possibly,” he concedes.

###

The council released Kit and cut Leske’s sentence to a month in exchange for Beraht’s name. Would have given up Beraht to stop them from bugging Rica and mom, but the leverage helped a friend. If she pushes harder, they’ll know Leske’s more than she’s saying. Now free, with the gear she left in Everd’s room, plus the rest of his bottle, trying to keep pace with the lanky Surfacer. Too fast, walking straight from the Proving Grounds to the Hall of Paragons.

“What’s your name?” she says to distract his single-minded strides. “Can’t keep calling you Warden, am one now.”

“Duncan. You’re not a full Grey Warden, just a recruit. There’s an initiation to complete.”

“And if don’t want to?”

Duncan smiles. “You’ll go through it anyway.”

“What thought,” Kit says, sighing. “Hey, get my stuff?” She has her weapons but needs her bike. “Give you a ride on my Coursier. Meet my sister.” She knows the answer from his unbroken ground-eating stride.

“You heard them. We have to leave Orzammar without delay. You’re not allowed back until you’re a full Warden. Your things can go to your sister’s care.”

“Sell it for parts,” she mutters. Well. At least Rica and their mom can get summers for hard times.

Duncan pauses. “You know what?” He slings off his enormous pack. “It doesn’t make up for everything you’ve left behind, but I can give you something.” He draws a full-size metal bat from the pack. It looks brand-new, but with an old-fashioned logo.

“What… is this?” she says, hefting it.

“King Endrin Aeducan gave me that,” he says, gesturing toward the Diamond Quarter. “Passed on for generations, gifted to the Grey Wardens, now gifted to you.”

“So they found in their attic and thought of you? So sweet.”

Duncan hums, staring at it through his mirrored shades. “It’s an antique,” he says.

“Too slow for me,” Kit says, not wanting to cause offence because she is. Not. Going. To use this thing.

Duncan shrugs. “Antiques are valuable,” he deadpans.

Kit huffs a laugh. “That case, thanks. But carry it?”

“Happily,” he says, stashing it again.

They get walking, Duncan at a more reasonable pace. “Why did you think this was a good idea?” she asks him.

“Which part? Saving your life?”

“Yeah.”

The human laughs behind his shades. “Saving a life isn’t enough?”

“Leske could still die.”

“I couldn’t help Leske. _You_ might survive the darkspawn”—The human seems to bite off the end of his sentence.

“I worked as part of a team. Leske was half of that.”

“How would Leske have fared in Raneka’s place in the Proving?” Duncan says, consulting a Proving guide from his pocket. “If he was good, you’d have used him. Maybe he was adequate for Carta but not against darkspawn. You’ll work with people at or above your abilities now.”

 _Don’t want people, want my friend,_ Kit doesn’t say.

“When do get my new bike?”

Duncan laughs. “And how will we keep up?”

“What, the Grey Wardens walk everywhere?”

Duncan gives twin reflections of herself in his shades.

“The Grey Wardens walk everywhere. Shit. Knew this was a raw deal. Take me back, I’ll negotiate with Beraht.”

Duncan smiles. “You _knew_ the fire you were jumping into.”

“Would have been fine,” Kit says, but she’s not as sure as she hopes she sounds. “Why don’t have bikes?”

“We can’t afford ill-will when we commandeer a car or bikes until the Blight becomes common knowledge. With luck, we’ll stop it before then.”

Kit lets her mind skitter away from the news that a Blight has started, and says, “The Grey Wardens commandeer?”

“Yes, but it’s not free. It costs us in reputation. People sometimes think of us as thieves, not heroes. Similarly, I can afford to rescue one skilled troublemaker. It’s not worth the goodwill to rescue a second, less skilled troublemaker.”

“Huh. I’ve always wanted to commandeer.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t spend reputation when it’s not worth it. Got it. Not used to goodwill-building but try it out. Better at other methods.”

“And what is your usual method for building reputation?” Duncan says as if hadn’t seen it.

“Represented the interests of a series of businessmen, Beraht most recently. Intimidation is my strong suit.”

“We can find uses for your strengths in the Wardens.”

Kit grunts. “Thanks, Hero. It’s good of you.”

###

Duncan suppresses the urge to say something rude when Kit says, “Holy shit, it’s bigger than I thought,” looking up just outside Orzammar’s door. She’s not looking at the grand gates. She’s looking at the sky.

“Need a moment?” Duncan slams the locker shut and drops his rune-key in the drop box. He’s seen rune-keys before, but dwarves use them more than most people. Runes isolate nano from the Fade, but it won’t help if a demon gets loose. Then again, he’s heard the dwarven rune enchanters can secure runes against demons. Useful tech, if true.

“No. Got… got this.” Kit takes another breath and falls on her ass, sprawling across the ice as she lands.

“You’ve never walked on ice, have you?” he says, shuffling over to her.

“No shit, Hero,” Kit says, bright red and poking at her bruised pride. She gets up though.

“Keep your feet apart,” Duncan says even as Kit discovers this automatically. “Hands-out helps with balance.”

Kit works out an ungainly shuffle before dwarven merchants with carts full of goods grumble that she’s blocking the way.

“Let’s use the pond for practice. Walk in snow so you don’t slip. Careful not to get any inside your boots.” Duncan wonders how waterproof those boots are. Nothing he can do now.

“Yes. Good plan. Thank you,” the ruthless dwarf says breathlessly.

Both dwarves and humans are ice skating on the pond.

“Where do I get those?” Kit says sotto voce.

“No. They’ve had practice,” Duncan says. “Get used to walking first, then we’ll consider skates. Another time. They’re not practical for travel. See how they’re moving in circles and take them off to leave the pond?”

“Ah. Okay. Back soon.”

He glances at the time and train schedules on his FadeCell. He’d missed it underground. “You’ve got time. The next train doesn’t leave for another hour, and we’re taking the lorry down.”

“The Void’s a lorry?”

“A lorry is a truck.”

“Taking a truck and a train? Fancy.”

“We enjoy King Cailan’s sponsorship.”

“Cailan. Ferelden, right?”

“Yes.” Duncan is pleased she knows, but being Carta she must’ve learned political basics.

“Excellent. Be right back.”

Kit wades through snow to get to the pond and walks gingerly on the ice. She looks as awkward as the beginning ice skaters, splayed arms and falling on her ass. Kit reassures Duncan when she intuits a wide stance with floating hands and no falling. He reminds himself that this short, thick woman is an athlete in her own right, using strength to keep her bike in control on a challenging Proving course. Her stature proves an asset as she develops a gait that looks normal for ice. When she falls again, Duncan wonders how she backslid so much. She gets up again and continues to adjust her stance.

 _She’s going for intimidation. On ice_ , he realizes. He smiles as she settles on a wide stride with hands out, near her knife and small pick, looking like she’s about to grab a weapon but using those arms for balance. She pulls her weapons, practicing against shadow foes. Leske hadn’t been misleading him there: she’s got more fighting skill than average.

“You’re probably not going to need to fight on ice,” Duncan calls, using his Commander tone. “We need to catch the train.” She nods, sheathes her weapons, and returns to Duncan without falling.

He heads through the snow to the edge of the market. No one lives up here, but people stay for days, so tents here are windproof and insulated. Duncan stops to buy a tent, answering Kit’s questions as best he’s able. On the downhill side of the market, Duncan finds the lorry station. People are piling onto the next load, so Duncan throws coins to the driver, points to himself and Kit, and climbs aboard the low-slung, open truck. He turns and pulls her past other passengers. She flinches at the contact but no worse. They find seats, and the lorry trundles down the mountain, everybody laughing and chatting like they’re going to a tavern.

“First time surfacer,” a dwarf across from Kit says. It’s not a question, but she nods. Duncan lets her find the warnings.

“How could you tell?” Kit grunts, trying and failing to hide her desperation. _She wants to blend quickly._

The dwarf laughs. “Sky-struck, duster,” he says, and Duncan flinches, expecting a fight. Kit just shrugs.

“Give a few hours.”

He laughs louder now, rocking and drawing sharp glances from the passengers squeezed closest to him. The rest of the lorry quiets.

“Fresh off the boat,” he says. Duncan feels stupid for not noticing the brand below the dwarf’s right eye, the first thing Kit would see fresh out of Orzammar.

“What?”

“Surfacer saying. Look, lose this guy; work for me.” He jerks a thumb at Duncan. “Don’t know what he’s offered, but can probably double it.”

Duncan allows an eyebrow to quirk. “Check the wear pattern on his pack. Carrying heavy material?” Duncan asks. “Metal chains, collars? You’ll sell her as a slave or worse.”

“’Vints don’t want dwarven slaves. No magic in them,” he says too easily.

“Bullshit,” Duncan responds, leaning forward on the low bench and taking up as much space as the crowd crammed into this truck allows. King Cailan doesn’t tolerate slaving. Duncan wants a good description for the guard. “Tevinter has dwarves in the mines and sewers.”

His opponent snarls and opens his mouth to argue.

“Don’t fucking scam me, _duster,_ ” Kit says, showing the anger Duncan had been expecting when the dwarf used the term. “Not here because couldn’t cut it downstairs, here because fucking _dangerous_.” She puts a hand on a dagger, but Duncan places a gentling hand over hers.

“Not here,” he says. “Let’s not ruin these lovely peoples’ day.”

Kit glances at the scared faces of the reputable merchants in the lorry.

“Ants,” she mutters, which Duncan takes a moment to recognize as short for Merchant Caste. “Fine,” she says, shoving the dagger fully into its sheath. “But see you again, and promise”—

“Stop,” Duncan says for her ears only. Definitely downsides to recruiting the most dangerous person in a city-state. “Any fool tries what you threaten, and you’ll come first to mind. We’ve no time for a trial.”

She scowls at the slaver across the silent truck. He leers at her. Duncan will definitely report this asshole in town.

“Dangerous? Kicked out of the Carta, then? Think _he’s_ got your best interests at heart? How’s he know the slave trade, huh? Dwarf fetish, old man?”

“No dwarven slaves, huh? Stop trying to get us to split so you can jump her with more men later. I don’t know the slave trade, but I do know people.” Mercifully, the lorry comes to a stop at the bottom of the mountain. He’d been too busy to get nervous about the breakneck driving and hairpin turns, for once. “If you’ll excuse us, we have places to be.” He stands, and everyone scoots back enough it’s easy to disembark. Like the finest gentleman, he gestures for Kit to precede him and follows. The crowd closes behind them, hostile toward the dwarf trying to follow. By sundown, this man will be in custody, or at least well-known and unable to lurk outside Orzammar’s gates.

###

Kit still thinks it’s weird for a mountain to be the outside of something, not covering a city. When they get to the bottom of the mountain, Duncan stops at a small free-standing building, leaving Kit outside, sneering at anyone who looks at her too long and ready to bolt into the building, orders or no, if any potential slaver approaches. Her edginess probably tipped the slaver off, which only makes it worse.

On the way to the train, Kit asks, “Was that piece of plastic you got from the rune-lockers at Orzammar’s exit a FadeCell?”

“Yes,” Duncan says. “Any FadeNet capable devices aren’t allowed in Orzammar. So close to the Dark Fade source, that’s a good practice, but mine is safe from corruption.”

“The darkspawn use the Fade?”

“Yes, the Dark Fade broadcasts with a strong enough signal to overwhelm other Fade signals, but Grey Wardens limit Fade access to keep control of our devices.” Then mutters, “among other things,” which Kit wasn’t supposed to hear, so files it away. 

The train has one seat for each person. The wide seats have luggage racks above. Kit has no luggage, and Duncan only has his enormous pack, which he stows on open shelves on their way to their seat. Kit would never trust her belongings to the honesty of strangers, but their other choice is to buy a ticket for the pack.

Kit has never been on a vehicle so big, fast, and crowded. The clothing here is as beat-up as her own, but it’s all softer: cotton-poly blends vs. her leather jacket. Surfacers prefer a single bag to the many pouches Kit has strapped to her body. Canvas pants are fairly common, but tighter than her baggy pants over riding armor. In fact, Kit and Duncan seem to be the only two on this train in full armor. _Fucking weird._

The movement yet lack of control on the train is nauseating until she discovers watching out the window helps. Well, that’s disorienting in its own way. She’s unfamiliar with sky, building styles, lakes, and open spaces.

“This isn’t what I was expecting.” Kit remembers the poor mark she’d prepared so badly before tossing him into the snow.

“What were you expecting?” Duncan asks.

“Not this! More Orzammar, sky instead of rock overhead. People spouting flame from their hands, but seen zero nano. Unless FadeScreens count.” Kit nods briefly to a mark forward and across the aisle, showing a glowing book of plastic to her companion. They both contain their laughter at the display. Kit looks out the window before the nausea returns.

Duncan chuckles. “Maybe they should: they draw on the Fade. But no. Nano pilots are sent to Circles, a school or prison, depending who you ask. The one in Ferelden is at Kinloch Hold. You’ll see nano at Ostagar before we visit.”

“Visiting the Circle?” Kit’s curiosity emerges from the general tumult of _stress_. It’s welcome. _Exploring the Surface, but looking forward to it._

Duncan laughs. “You’ll visit the Circle. We’ll collect allies there. It will be a respite from fighting darkspawn.”

“Have another question,” Kit says. At Duncan’s nod, she swallows and says, “Can individual Grey Wardens drastically improve the lives of dwarves?”

Duncan’s eyebrows pinch together as he studies her. “When Grey Wardens end a Blight, everyone’s lives improve.”

Kit nods, but Duncan’s not done.

“That’s not what you’re asking, is it?” he says, which damages Kit’s stress levels. “The Assembly has voted one Casteless Paragon… who overthrew a King.”

Kit regards him evenly. “I’ll take long odds over what I had before,” she says.

Duncan grins and strikes up a conversation with a nice older lady across the aisle. She’s eager to tell Kit about her family’s farm, with its strange animals and crops and neighbors. Kit asks questions, and the human woman answers each frankly though occasionally can’t hide her surprise. Ferelden values show in whispers about a boy the templars took when they discovered he’d had a silicone chip installed. She expresses sympathy for his parents and practically hisses the word, ‘mage.’

“Wait, who installed it without his parents knowing?”

“Nobody knows, dear. They can do it quite stealthily now. Adults reject the chips, which is a polite way of saying they die. Chips only take in the young. There’s a rumor,” she adds conspiratorially, “that they have a trigger in a small tube for a child’s ear. In my day, they could only use the eye or mouth, which made it much easier to detect. Well, now they have this _ear_ thing, which can be done in the poor child’s sleep.” Kit fails to imagine staying asleep with anything in her ear but is a light sleeper. “Most mage children don’t even know they’re implanted. I would lock my kids up every night, I would, if they weren’t full grown and safe from this nonsense.”

The next day, switch trains at the Redcliffe station, perched on the top of the hill looking down to the main town: a riot of color plastered to the steep hillsides. They arrive in Lothering within hours. They stay at a hotel overnight. Kit stays up as late as she dares, drinking quietly in the corner of the tiny hotel bar and absorbing as much Surface information as she can. The next morning, the part Kit is dreading starts. The walking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered using the canon Brosca storyline, but I wanted interaction between Kit and nobles. This plot also opens options for the Paragon of Her Kind arc, if/when I get around to writing that.
> 
> Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3 beta'd this so beautifully! Any ugly bits must be because I didn't hear something they said.


	6. Ostagar Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit discovers oddities of her new world at the King's Camp in Ostagar. More details about how nano works and how the Chantry controls it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kit draws steel too fast as a Grey Warden. Fortunately, she gets lucky with who she draws against the first time.

A pair of socks is keeping Kit alive. Duncan handed them to her after they stocked up in Lothering. They’ve been walking for a week. Duncan had hoped they could hitch a ride with warriors on their way to Ostagar, but apparently no more are coming. At night, they wrap in separate blanket rolls in the tent Duncan bought on Orzammar Mountain. They sleep, eat, or trade stories until it’s warm enough to head out.

Blisters threaten both heels, her right big toe, and her left pinky toe. Then they crest a hill and Duncan says, “There’s Ostagar.”

Their slushy road cuts down the hill and through a sad remnant of small houses covered in snow. It points straight for grand, distant structures of glass, metal, and snow, glittering in the setting sun. _This was their Dust Town, that’s their Diamond quarter_ , thinks Kit. It looks like a painting Kit could touch. 

“A white city,” she whispers. She struggles with a series of emotions: fear of showing a soft side; realization, with a glance at Duncan, that she won’t always have to be tough; and then a struggle with the balance of those two emotions, wondering whether she can trust all Grey Wardens as much as she trusts Duncan. She owes him her life, and he can’t do worse than take what he’s owed.

She settles on not sneering at Duncan’s smile as he says, “It is beautiful. Unfortunately, the white part is snow.”

“Is the glittering part ice?”

“No, that’s broken glass. Watch for broken windows in Ostagar streets. Your boots will survive it, but avoid sharp edges if you pick it up.”

“Speaking of dangerous things, I’ve been meaning to ask you. It sounds like mages are bad news.” They’re walking as they talk, buildings bigger whenever Kit glances.

“It sounds that way, but nano, called magic by some, is a tool. Any tool has misuses. Nano pilots are _people_ with flaws and feelings.”

Kit sighs. “We need them for something, don’t we?”

Duncan looks at her sharply.

“Surprise! The thug can assemble a puzzle,” she says. “You say they’re isolated but their magic is useful. Most importantly, you say they’re people. That means they’re willing to open up to you. Impressive, considering how vilified they are.” She shrugs. “Introduce me. I’d rather recruit than vilify any day.”

Duncan laughs from his belly, something he didn’t do on the train, in any of the towns, or in Orzammar. He says, “It’s better have them on your side, trust me.”

Kit shrugs her _we’ll see_ and pulls her jacket closed tighter. Lucky that a jacket that stops the street from peeling her skin off also keeps wind out. The cold air sneaks under her collar and up from her waist, but it bleeds straight through her baggy canvas pants, stopping at her knee and shin armor. She wishes she’d bought leather pants instead of Rica’s scooter part then a wave of guilt swamps her. Will Rica know where to repair the scooter? If only Kit had gotten Leske free, too.

They are close enough to the glittering city that Kit can pick out several spires against the sky. One tower stands on the highest point in the city. Its dark asymmetrical knife-shape catches the light on its edges and fractures the oranges and pinks of the first hint of sunset into eye-catching flashes of light as they walk. It’s more metal than glass, perhaps because of its exposed position. A groove along the side suggests a fuller.

“More dangerous things,” Kit mumbles, jerking her head that direction.

Duncan smiles. “The Tower of Ishal looks like a knife to me, too.”

Kit nods seriously. “What landmarks should I know?”

“Let’s see… Ishal is one of the few safe buildings. As you can see, homes out this far have already fallen.” They are passing through the ruins of the modest dizer-sized homes, slow-motion collapsing into their basements. “The army is camped in a clearing near the ravine. Old parks are scattered throughout Ostagar. The bridge allows us to cross the ravine quickly.”

“Camp? We live in cloth hovels in this cold?”

“Yes, but there are extra blankets. The Grey Wardens have a large central fire and frost-resistant tents, but you will get cold traveling from your tent to the fire.”

For the first time, Kit considers walking away from this gig. Kit would be a slave before freezing to death, given a strict choice. She can stick a blade in a master. She weighs her discomfort versus the protection and long-shot opportunities the Grey Wardens offer. “Have enough food?” she asks.

Duncan grins. “All you can eat.”

“Careful,” Kit says, surprised. “Can eat my weight.”

“You’ve eaten little on the road.”

“Didn’t think were carrying much. Can go without, Duster.” Kit’s eyes widen as she realizes what she said. “Sorry, Boss.”

Duncan only smiles. “You see me as one of your own. I’m honored,” he says.

Kit realizes he’s her mother’s age. _Why am I thinking that?_

“I didn’t find my fill line before Joining the Wardens, either,” he says, smiling. “Eat your fill before your Joining.”

“Huh.” Kit wonders what a father would be like. There’s no way her father is human. Yet, if her father turns out like Duncan, she might not hate him after all.

“Not everyone in the Wardens know what hunger means, but every Warden has committed their life to stopping the Blight.”

In a Blight, darkspawn Surface despite sunlight or fire, threatening Orzammar and its mining on their way out. Threaten her people. The darkspawn fungus attacks the brains of its victims and changes them: appearance, thoughts, biology. Grey Wardens have no cure. Her path to Paragon-hood will be paved in the bodies of the Blight’s victims.

As they walk, Kit picks out more details of the city. Ruins of smaller glass-and-steel towers shimmer like a scattering of clear gems. The base matrix between these gems is short stone buildings with a rare glittering broken window.

When they get close enough to the stone buildings, Kit asks, “What’s wrong with your stone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are Surfacers obsessed with rectangles enough to carve so many into your walls?”

Duncan chuckles. “No. Those are blocks of stone, cut from Orzammar or a quarry and stacked into walls. They’re sometimes stuck together with mortar, depending on the size of the stone. The reddish ones are brick.”

“Dead stone?” Kit stops. “You live in dead stone houses?”

“Where do you think stone to hollow out Orzammar went?” Duncan asks. “We have to shelter ourselves. We don’t have a mountain to burrow into.”

“It’s just… weird,” Kit says. She notices the upper floors of the stone buildings tend to be brick.

Duncan chuckles again. “Wait till you see houses made of wood,” he says.

“You make whole _houses_ of _wood_?!” It’s an outrageous expenditure where she’s from.

“You didn’t notice in Redcliffe? Wood is common here,” Duncan reassures her. “Stone is the luxury on the Surface.”

“I thought they painted stone,” Kit says. “Surfacers are weird.” She realizes how rude that could sound. “No offense.” Kit points to their left, at the mountain they’ve skirted around through the Wilds to approach at the level of the city. “Why not build there instead?”

“I don’t know for sure. This city was built before the Ages. But maybe for the same reason we’re using it: this location has strategic significance. If we can stop this Blight from spreading north, we’re at the best place to do it.”

###

Kit is exhausted and Duncan is showing wear as they approach tents near the edge of the ravine. Duncan stops short and composes himself as a human in nice, understated armor approaches, tailed by several guards.

“King Cailan!” he says. “I didn’t expect”—

“A royal welcome? And why not? This must be the third recruit.”

 _Holy shit, Duncan wasn’t kidding about the king’s favor._ Kit digs out reserve strength for this conversation. “Kit Brosca, your Majesty,” she says. Duncan has closed his face off, jaw line sharp.

“A pleasure. You’re to join our fight against the darkspawn horde? Have you encountered them before?”

Kit bites back a scoff. _Disrespecting the friendly King is a bad idea, Brosca._ “Casteless aren’t allowed to play in the Deep Roads,” she says.

“Play?” King Cailan says with a charming smile. “Well, you’re certainly enthusiastic.” Warmth from that smile soaks into Kit’s bones despite her resistance.

“Darkspawn could overrun Orzammar, Your Highness.”

“As I understand it, the darkspawn coming to the surface lightens the burden on Orzammar. I’m afraid I’d rather they stay in the Deep Roads.”

“Darkspawn don’t concern you until they Surface,” Kit says. _Give me strength; I’m not sure I can stay polite._ Duncan has said nothing, but her recruitment cost him among the dwarves; she can’t damage good will with the Ferelden King.

Cailan shakes his head. “Orzammar Mining Company has made their sovereignty quite clear. They don’t want us meddling.”

“That sounds like them,” Kit says, nodding, and they’re on the same side again.

“I understand their caution. I’m king of Ferelden, not Orzammar. As Wardens strive to end the Blight, I protect Ferelden.”

“That’s practical,” Kit concedes.

“Which reminds me,” Cailan says turning to Duncan. “In a quarter hour, we are holding another council about the battle two days from now. Will you attend, Duncan?”

Duncan bows, stiff from the road. “Of course, your Majesty.”

### 

Kit knows a dismissal when she hears one. She follows Duncan into camp.

Once they’re out of earshot of King Cailan, Duncan says, “You cannot focus solely on Orzammar in the days to come. All of Thedas is relying on us to destroy this Blight. Believe it or not, there’s more at stake than the last Dwarven outpost.”

Kit considers briefly. “I believe it, I just don’t care.” She shakes her head at Duncan’s sharp look. “I’ve been on the Surface for less than a week. Everyone I trust besides you is in Orzammar.”

Duncan’s gaze returns to the camp before them. “You will find the Wardens reliable enough, if you rely on each for the right thing,” he says, nodding to the fire in the center of a large, empty camp. “Get food and rest. Explore the camps. Maintain goodwill on behalf of the Grey Wardens. Keep an eye out for your fellow Grey Warden recruits, Daveth and Jory, and our newest Grey Warden, Alistair. You four have a mission tomorrow morning.”

“Sure thing, Boss. What will you do?”

“Plan with King Cailan and his commander Loghain, prepare the Wardens for our part in the plan, and,” Duncan nods toward buildings with partitions in the streets, “check my Wardens’ progress in urban warfare drills for Ostagar.”

Kit flinches. “Urban? The darkspawn are in the city?”

“The lower city, in the ravine. This battle will eliminate them.” Shouts from between the partitions indicate fighting practice.

“They could attack at any moment,” Kit says, surprised to be nervous.

“Welcome to war,” Duncan says with a friendly salute. He heads to another corner of the camp.

Kit grabs a bowl, checking her knives and pickaxe before she scoops cold overcooked mash from the cook pot. It’s lumpy, with dull flecks of orange and green and a greasy, meaty undertone. Not the worst she’s eaten, especially the browned edges. Once she feels rested, she explores the larger camp, keeping an eye out for icy patches. A small flying machine catches Kit’s eye. It rises into the air and then drops again. Kit follows it, fidgeting with her lighter as she walks and trying not to burn her fingers as she uses the flame to warm them in the cooling evening. She ends up near a strawberry-blonde man in a red-and-black bike armor with a red plaid flannel peeking under it. The flick of her lighter in her fingers and click of the lid is comforting, familiar, unlike this place.

The guy next to her says conversationally, “Blighted security risk if you ask me. What’s to prevent a demon from possessing the drone? It could collect enough nanobots to swarm.”

“These drones have a limited battery life,” says the woman behind them. The guy jumps, spinning around, but Kit can't stop tracking everyone’s locations. 

“What?” he says. While he’s distracted, Kit perches on the lower rail of a two-rail fence that meanders through the camp, leaning forward and flicking her lighter.

“It’s equipped with a rechargeable battery, but no charger,” the woman answers. “Real hands have to pop the battery out to recharge it.”

“Oh. That’s… probably okay, then.” The man rubs the back of his neck with a bare hand, but he’s got heavy gloves in his back pocket. No, pouch. His biking gloves don’t fit in the slim pockets humans prefer.

Unbothered, the woman walks to a man catching the machine with one hand, electronic controller in the other. Several other drones are in cases around them.

“So,” says Kit, “is the bike gear just for show?” She leans against the upper rail.

“What? Um, no?” he says.

“Are you sure?” She’s tempted to laugh at him.

He puts his hands on his hips. “I’m no biker, but armor they wear is good against darkspawn. I’m a Grey Warden. So, no, it’s not for show, but I don’t ride, either, if that’s what you really wanted.” He’s eyeing her leathers.

“Yes,” Kit sneers, swinging through the rails and sticking out a hand, “but I’m a Grey Warden, too, or will be soon. Kit Brosca.”

“You must be the recruit Duncan mentioned on GreyNet. Alistair of Redcliff.” He shakes her hand. She tugs him down, looks him straight in the eye, and releases his hand to let him stand up again.

“Kinda tall, aren’t you?” she says, setting him up. Make your position clear _fast_ , or lose it. And usually blood.

Instead of taking offence, though, he snorts. “Kinda short, aren’t you?”

“What did call me?!” Kit pulls her switchblade and flicks it out behind her leg in one motion.

“Whoa! Sorry, misunderstanding! I thought we were exchanging random observations about – about each other.” Alistair holds up his hands and retreats a step, all but rolling over to show his underbelly. Kit lets her satisfaction show, just a flash.

“Think of dwarves as short?” Kit tries for a neutral tone and face, to see how well Alistair can read her.

“No? Yes.” Alistair looks defeated, yet there’s steel in his eye. “Honestly, I didn’t know it was a problem.”

“Shit,” Kit growls, putting away the knife but watching him. “Won’t fight beside a fucking pacifist.” She’s reassured when Alistair smirks.

“Darkspawn I’ll kill,” he says, dangling his hands at his sides. “I’d rather not hurt a future Grey Warden.”

Kit barks a laugh. “You’ll do, Alistair.” Nods, finds it hard not to smile.

Alistair grins, eager to please. “Wait a minute, you’re the recruit and I have to pass muster?”

“Duncan promised me better partners than my last crew.” Kit’s loss is too raw to say crew of two. “Were my first chance to check that promise. Fall _short_ , but can make it work.” 

“High bar,” Alistair quips. “So, you’re testing every Grey Warden you meet?” He stifles a laugh, maybe someone in mind. Kit considers.

“Depends on the person.”

“Greeeeat.”

“Said I have the evening to myself. Show me around camp.” She would never give Leske orders like this. “Unless you’re part of the big meeting?” Kit adds when he hesitates.

“Me? No, no, no. I’m the new guy. Well, new enough I’m not any advisor to the—war council.”

“Great! Let’s go!” Kit takes off deeper into camp, weaving between shattered buildings, drawn by fire, cooking, and camaraderie.

“Where are we going?” Alistair asks behind her.

“Have never been. What’s over here?”

“Mostly glass and metal.”

“No shit?” She shoots him a wide-eyed look, a caricature of a mark.

Alistair grins. “And King Cailan’s and Commander Loghain’s tents.”

 _Figures._ The tents are biggest here, and the second-most brightly colored things in the fading light. A series of tents further on has them beat, but only because smaller tents make room for more colors.

“What can you tell me about Cailan and Loghain?”

“Not-not much,” Alistair says, shrugging and shuffling. “I’ve only met the King a few times, and Loghain not at all. I hear they have different… styles.”

High buildings are better than miles of sky, but this place is deathly under-crowded. She’s used to having to step out of traffic to confer. Now she stops in the middle of the path, one lone figure sprinting by them, pack heavy on his back.

“Spill it, solrocka,” she prompts.

“Well, Cailan comes up with new ideas. He’s good at bringing allies to the cause.” Alistair squints at a tent. “Loghain is grumpy.”

“Grumpy? That’s not a style.”

Alistair shrugs again. “He is. I guess his _style_ is practical. Loghain’s challenges help them find unique solutions rooted in reality.”

“Excellent. Hey, where are the Grey Wardens fighting in two days?”

Alistair scoffs. “People call it a battle, like it’ll be glorious. It’s clean-up work. Ostagar was a squatter’s town, mostly elves but plenty of humans and even a few dwarves.” Alistair takes a detour. When Kit follows, the buildings part to reveal a dramatically plunging cliff. Alistair nods to a soldier staring into the ravine, one of several along the edge.

 _Oh, good, my fear of heights isn’t debilitating,_ Kit thinks as she peers over the edge. She decides fear is healthy this high up, but she’s not shaking or clinging to Alistair and undoing her work on him. She’s grateful for the sturdy double rail, though.

The lower city is only five blocks wide in the narrowest part of the valley to their left. The neat square blocks contrast with twisting passageways back home. In Orzammar, the miners cut out the weakest stone before deciding where to put the buildings, preserving the best Stone. Here, with no Stone to guide them, the humans created their own sense of order with ruler-straight streets. As this city spills out of the ravine, though, the streets branch and curve outward, spawning wedge-shaped buildings at five-pointed intersections. Everything suffers from a century of neglect, but she can still detect the privileged neighborhoods by the larger blocks and houses, the strip of snow-piled space around buildings in the best neighborhoods, the rust-rimmed black iron bars around property to keep riff-raff out.

 _Wouldn’t stop me._ Kit grins. She needs to find a fight. She’s tilting at centuries-dead architects.

Ramps carved into the cliff provide a route to the bottom: grand architectural works, comparable to Orzammar’s structures but with rails of metal instead of live stone. There’s another set in the cliff on the other side of the ravine, visible as a shining trace of metal in the creeping evening shadows. The buildings in the valley have no metal, only brick and stone with wooden rooves and lean-tos. They look cozy, even from a distance, and Kit feels a wash of homesickness. Windows are small and glass against the wind.

Sometimes Kit can see a tiny figure moving between the buildings. At this distance, she can’t tell whether they started as an elf, human, or dwarf, let alone see the telltale signs of corruption on their skin. They scurry across a street or through a deserted intersection. Snow piles in drifts against doors anywhere the wind doesn’t keep it moving. If she tilts her head just right, she can see a shadow of tracks through the snow down most of the streets, heavily-tread paths plowed through the snow by tainted feet. There is… not a sound, more of a _sense_ of scrabbling in the valley, a susurrus of scratching.

Kit shivers as she turns away. “Darkspawn are fascinating.”

Alistair laughs. “Yeah, wait till—well, just wait. When you meet them, you’ll become familiar with their natural charm and desire to stab or shoot everyone in the face.”

“Sounds like a good time.” Kit flashes her murderous smile.

Alistair tilts his head. “You’re a strange one,” he says but smiles too. “Well, you wanted to see the Circle tents.”

Kit leads them between the King’s tents and the ravine, toward a smattering of people hovering around beat-up cargo vans.

The woman Kit walks up to is a half-head shorter than Alistair. She’s whip-thin with pointed ears and a touch of desperation around the eyes. The elf watches without fear or hope, but also without breaking eye contact. Kit loosens her shoulders, aiming for casual.

“Sorry to pick you out, but I’ve never met an elf,” Kit says. “I’m wondering what you do here?”

The elf tilts her head. “It’s okay. I was going to flag you down because I’ve never met a dwarf.” There’s a bitter bite to her words.

“You’re lucky,” Alistair says. “This one’s fresh from Orzammar! Piping hot!” He cringes at his own words.

“What brings you here?” the elf asks after smiling politely at Alistair’s joke. He mutters something about being ignored. Points for the elf.

“Conscripted to the Grey Wardens from between the jaws of death. You?”

She shrugs. “Not much opportunity in Denerim. Thought we’d take a chance merchandising to the army.”

 _Take initiative to improve conditions._ Who said that to Kit when she was a child?

If she’s selling things, why is her vehicle closed up tight? “What do you sell?” Kit asks. The boxy cargo van’s the biggest vehicle Kit’s seen on the Surface, not counting the train.

“Food and supplies,” she says, warming to Kit.

“Do you have hard candy?”

The dizer looks surprised. “Yeah. Five onnies a packet. What flavor?” She pops the sliding door open and levers herself up, turning to Kit for her answer.

Fuck if she knows. “What got?”

“Gooseberry, strawberry, raspberry, and mixed berry.”

“Gooseberry and a raspberry.”

“One blue.”

Kit pulls out the smattering of change from shopping with Leske days ago. _Don’t think about that, duster._ An anvil glints in the blue metal. She flips it over and a stone man clenches its fist at her, lines bursting from it. The golem seems annoyed at the exposure to unholy sunlight. _Necessary sunlight._

“Crap, do take Orzammar blues?”

“Duncan didn’t get your money changed?” Alistair says, looking over her shoulder. He looms more like backup than a threat, Kit decides. “I’ve eight onnies but no blue.”

His onnies are weird, a similar size, black stone imprinted with a dog, standing with a proud and patriotic air, unlike the old-school pickaxe on hers. The summers she spent yesterday had a dwarven face on them, presumably Endrin Aeducan.

The dizer shrugs. “I’ll take the last two in her onnies. Something for the kids.”

Kit nods. “Thanks. Got two kids?”

“Three,” she says.

Kit gives her three onnies with Alistair’s eight and hands him her blue.

Alistair stares at the coin a moment, and then says, “Okay, but I owe you two onnies.”

Kit considers him. “Nah, forget it, kid.”

“Kid?” Alistair says, laughing, “We’re the same age!”

Kit huffs. _Yeah, whatever._

As Kit pockets the rest of her change and the packet of raspberry, she asks, “Hey, I should watch out for?”

“The quartermaster, if you were taller with longer ears.”

“Excellent,” Kit lets a growl enter her voice. “I’ll do that!” She gives a mock-salute and strides away, trying the gooseberry candy. Alistair trails behind.

“Why didn’t you treat me like that?” he asks: curious, not whining.

“They’re an asset. You’re a co-worker.”

“They’re an asset? They’re peddlers.”

Kit shrugs and hands him a candy. “Peddlers, as you call them, can get you stuff.” And information, but Kit won’t tell him if he didn’t notice.

“But… we’re working together.” Alistair says, still bewildered.

“Co-workers need to understand one another, right?”

“I guess,” he shrugs.

Kit had accepted the price without question as thanks for the information, but now she wondered something. “Do Surfacers haggle?”

Alistair huffs a laugh. “No, definitely not. Merchants set their prices as low as possible to attract customers, so if you try to bargain, it’s an insult. It’s like… you’re accusing them of lying about how much they need to charge.”

“Huh,” Kit says, rolling the gooseberry candy around in her mouth. “That’s so weird. Leske would hate it up here, he loves bargaining.” _Shit._ Kit takes off again.

“Leske?” Alistair seems as curious about her as she is about the Surface.

“Hey, nano,” she says, brightening as they enter the camp with bright tents. Ahead and to her right, someone shoots a gout of flame at an ancient metal post with a glob of melted glass at the top. _Target practice?_ The flame is crimson, with silver-white sparks, and nearby dust glitters.

“What do you know of nano?” Alistair says.

“Is obviously dangerous,” Kit says, waving a hand at the flame-shooting nano pilot, “but it’s run by people.” The nano pilot’s long, bulky grey-blue sweater and gold leggings allow him the movements he’s using to cast, but would hamper him a real fight. The three-quarter sleeves stay out of his staff’s way. No male dwarf would be caught dead in something so feminine, but then no dwarf has survived silicone chipping.

“What about hidden dangers?” Alistair asks.

“Is about demons, isn’t it? Said demons could take over the flying machine when we met.” Kit lets her voice go mocking.

“They could still take a drone, but the limited power supply is a clever defense.”

“How do you know demons?” Kit hopes he’s off balance enough not to notice the question’s stupid.

“I’m trained as a templar,” he reassures her. “ _Any_ tech connected to the Fade could get reprogrammed by a demon. Something with mobility and visual needs little nano to become a threat.”

Kit considers this. “If an AI wants to hang out in a robot? Maybe is bored with the Fade.”

“AI’s always become demons. It’s their nature to threaten,” Alistair says.

“What know about dwarven nature, wonder?” Kit says.

“What?” Alistair is bewildered.

“Nothing,” Kit says, waving it off. “As understand this…” Kit turns back to the nano pilot. “The glitter in his fire is tiny metal machines controlled with the silicon chip in his head, implanted too young to reject it.”

“Yes,” Alistair says, watching the pilot warily.

“So _he’s_ got a chip. What keeps him from being possessed?” Kit looks past the flash to the concentration on his face.

“His will, constantly applied,” Alistair says, head jerking toward the copper-haired man. “A nano pilot has better access to his chip than any demon.”

“But possession happens?” A curl of dread wraps around the pit of Kit’s stomach.

“Not always,” Alistair says, meeting Kit’s eye. “That’s what their training is for. It’s easier while they’re using nano, but strong emotions can draw something powerful. Demons can detect emotions in the Fade, and mages have a direct connection. They can’t stop broadcasting, but the best can reduce the signal and block demons.”

“If not the best?” Kit snaps.

Alistair’s eyebrows pinch together. “Yeah. I… I’ve seen it, once. Demons don’t care how a _person_ is… put together. They rearrange parts like it’s all nano.”

“Shit,” Kit whispers appreciatively. “Shall we go say hi?” she says, grinning. Might as well poke the bronto. Kit’s great at dodging.

“What? Kit, no!”

“Kit, yes!” she says, but when she turns: “Where’d he go?” The melted lamppost hisses in the frigid air, but the nano pilot disappeared. A nearby tent flap closes. Alistair scrambles after Kit.

Alistair grabs her elbow, and she spins on him.

“I thought we understood each other, Alistair,” she snaps. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

Instead of raising his hands in surrender, Alistair keeps hold of her elbow, stepping in her path. “We do, but I trained as a templar.”

“You mentioned,” Kit says, pulling out of his grip and folding her arms to listen. _I could use a lookout on the Surface._

“Look,” he says, soft and urgent, “if I am involved with any confrontation with mages, it could cause an incident. I _trained_ as a _templar_.”

The flap of the tent opens, and a man in licking _metal armor_ steps out.

“Who wears metal?” Kit mutters.

Alistair glances over his shoulder. “Templars.”

Kit’s eyes snap to him. “Explain to the new Surfacer, Alistair. I need to understand.”

“Ser,” he says, and straightens into a strict stance with different details than guards in Orzammar. He focuses over her head as he rattles off: “Templars ensure mages don’t use blood nanites or get possessed, and they-they kill ma—ah, nano pilots that do.” Alistair relaxes and looks her in the eye to say, “There’s no love lost between the groups.” He grins and drops his hands from where he’d tucked them behind his back, funning his own knee-jerk formality. Kit doesn’t laugh. This entire conversation has ratcheted Alistair higher in her estimation. She needs to keep this one.

“And the metal armor?”

“Metal armor has many uses. Insulated metal protects from lighting, fire, and frost; sealed metal blocks nano; and metal enchants well.”

Kit huffs. “I’ve seen enchantment. Dwarves don’t allow nano, but runes are fine.”

Alistair nods. “Templar devices have no Fade access, so the Chantry allows them.”

“The Chantry’s in charge of the templars?” Kit asks, contemplating the metal warrior.

Alistair rolls his shoulders and tilts his head. “Yes. The Chantry is a religious institution with an army.”

Kit’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, they’ll say otherwise, but the templars are trained warriors, and the Chantry gives them marching orders. Definitely an army.”

“And who controls the Chantry?” Kit asks.

“The Divine in Orlais is the head,” he says, shrugging. “Chosen from the Mothers of the Chantry by her peers. Well. Rarely the Mothers choose someone outside the hierarchy, but Chantry experience helps.”

A group of humans and elves, wearing bulky nano-pilot sweater-dresses and leggings, snag the templar. They enter a fenced off area, and the templar guards the entrance. Kit approaches.

“Sorry,” the templar says. “The mages are not to be disturbed now.” Behind him, the pilots are directing clouds of nano and pouring liquids into bowls. An empty goblet stands on a rough, rectangular table in the center of their clearing.

With a shrug at Alistair, Kit nods and circles to the other side, where the way is blocked by a man in more nano-pilot garb.

“You may not pass here,” the man says blandly.

“No need to get excited,” Kit quips.

“I am not excited. Simply… you may not pass.”

“Kit,” Alistair says, “he’s Tranquil.”

“I am,” the Tranquil says in that same flat tone.

“What does that mean?”

“I am no longer a danger to others,” he says. “My emotions have been removed.”

“What,” Kit whispers, leaning closer. There’s a faint round sunburst on his forehead.

“Would you prefer to see my brand at a closer proximity?” he asks.

“Sorry,” she says, rocking back. “Didn’t mean to cause offense.” She almost hopes she has.

“No offense taken,” the man says.

“Or possible,” mutters Alistair behind her.

The Tranquil crouches, and Kit looks closer. The design is hundreds of tiny holes, nano injected into his skull.

“The Tranquil nanites detect and neutralize anything emotional, cutting off his connection to the Fade,” Alistair explains quietly.

“Damage the brain?”

“No, not damage.” Alistair says. “It ends chemical reactions that lead to emotions. He feels pain and pleasure, but he’s never happy or angry about it. No one knows how its programming works; it’s forbidden to analyze it.”

“Why?”

Alistair shrugs. “It’s how the Chantry runs things.”

The Tranquil stands again. “If you will excuse me, I have work to do,” he says.

Kit nods, and the Tranquil watches them walk away.

“I remembered a mage who can answer your questions.”

Kit smirks and hands Alistair another gooseberry candy. “Good work.”

“You can’t buy loyalty with sweets,” Alistair says, shaking the candy at her. Then he pops it in his mouth and says, “She was over here a second ago…”

They spot a human woman with white hair and clothes to match the sunset above: medium pink, bulky sweater with huge pockets, a lighter and thinner undershirt, and dark rose leggings. She’s holding a staff with bright blue glass set into the end.

“Wynne!” Alistair calls. When she turns, the movement of her sweater reveals a book strapped to her hip.

“Alistair,” she says when they get close enough to avoid yelling, “I thought you’d stay in the Grey Warden camp.”

He shrugs. “Mostly.”

“Demanded a tour,” Kit says. “Thought you might talk with us. Are too busy?”

“No, of course not,” Wynne says, drawn up short, for a human. “What would you like to know?”

“In Orzammar, don’t know about nano. What can you do?”

“Oh, little spells here and there.”

“Doesn’t sound useful for war, Wynne.” Kit appreciates that Wynne’s spine gets stiffer at Kit’s indulgent tone. Not a mark, then.

Wynne glares at Kit for a moment, but the admonishment she deserves doesn’t come.

“I have a few offensive spells, like Stonefist. In my case, flesh-repair nanites are more important. It’s faster than elfroot when I cast it.”

“Dusters don’t see much elfroot,” Kit says. “Do you have much on the Surface?”

Wynne huffs. “See those plants? All elfroot. Here, let me show you. It’s got a long valentine-shaped leaf. Well, people call it heart-shaped, but the heart is a lump of chambered muscle in the chest.”

Kit huffs, caught off-guard. Wynne shows Kit the plant and how to harvest it. Kit contemplates the value of raw elfroot in Orzammar markets. Deep Roads teams have an endless appetite for it. She resolves to collect what she can before she returns. She’s torn between selling it to Carta for cheap and selling it at the best price and handing the money to Rica to take care of their mom.

Alistair watches the lessons avidly as Kit practices, but before Wynne can get into its preparation, he interrupts with: “Food’s usually done by dark, and we should check in with Duncan.”

“Sounds good,” Kit says as she remembers Duncan’s orders to find her fill line before the Joining.

Wynne chuckles. “Grey Wardens and their food,” she says, waving them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Rosehip for her awesome beta skills! All mistakes are mine.


	7. Into the Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit clashes with her fellow recruits. Alistair drags them halfway into the Korcari Wilds. Wonder what’s there? And what the fuck smells like rotting apples?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where the Dark Town dialect drops subjects whenever possible. *shrugs* It's not a great dialect, but it's simple for now.

Inspired by her conversation with Duncan about the dangers of glass, Kit swings by a glass knapper to pick up a knife chipped from the thickest windows. The knapper shows off a high-quality kevlar vest with a knife hole, rimmed in old blood.

Kit and Alistair discover Duncan on their way to the cookfire. “Get supper,” he says. “Most of us are drilling for the assault on Ostagar, but we’ll join you soon.”

“Does come with beer on the Surface?” Kit groans. The walk to Ostagar is catching up with her despite her short rest before their tour, and she needs to get off her feet.

Duncan smiles. “It does. Watch out for Warden Grigol this evening. He likes to bet, and he’ll out-drink you, dwarf or no.”

“Are not all lushes,” Kit says solemnly.

“You’re not,” he returns with a wink. “I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

“Appreciate it.” Kit nods as they go.

Alistair leads the way to the cookfire. Kit grabs another bowl and digs a scoop of food from the pot. It’s thick and griege but tastes better than the cold mash available when she arrived. She finds a clean tankard and the keg of beer already on tap. These Grey Wardens have strong priorities, at least.

As she finishes pulling her beer, two people near the fire finish their conversation.  The one in heavier mediocre armor says, “I see you’re not drilling, either.” He lifts his tankard to Alistair and scoots to make room on the battered guard rail they’re using as a seat.

“Hey! We’ve got everyone who’s coming tomorrow,” Alistair says, lifting his tankard and sitting in the space provided. “Kit, meet Jory. The esteemed gentleman next to him is Daveth.”

Daveth snorts into his beer. “Apparently we’ve never met before.”

Alistair puts on a false air to say, “We’re all esteemed in the Grey Wardens, and I’m sure you can play a gentleman if you put your mind to it.”

Daveth rolls his eyes. “But why?” he counters.

“Perhaps because you’re in the presence of a lady?” Alistair makes a sweeping gesture at Kit.

Kit’s turn to snort into her beer. “You’re terrible at making assumptions, Alistair,” she says.

Alistair throws one hand up, bowl cradled on his lap. “Fine! I’m surrounded by heathens!”

“Speak for yourself,” Jory chides. His nose tilts up, or was that a chin-twitch?

“I miss drills,” Alistair says and picks his spoon up.

“Why don’t we get to drill?” Kit asks as Daveth shovels the colorless food into his mouth and Jory picks at his.

“While everyone else cleans out Ostagar, we get to round up allies.”

“I see. So what’s our job tomorrow?”

Alistair shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“A diplomatic trip is better known?” Jory asks. 

“Yeah, sorry, Grey Wardens and our secrets, you know how it is.”

“I do now,” Jory grumbles.

“I heard we’re going into the Wilds,” Daveth says.

Jory counters, “I heard the Deep Roads.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kit says, “if it were Deep Roads, Duncan would have brought you to me.”

“Yeah, hey, what’s Orzammar like?” Alistair asks, then returns to eating faster than Daveth.

“Hmm…” Kit chews and considers the mass of people, the towering walls. She remembers the bustle of streets she zipped through on her bike, the frustration when traffic clogged. She ignores the pang of longing. If she’d only gotten to bring her bike.

“Living in Orzammar is like being blood. You flow through streets like veins, you question whether your day-to-day matters. But like a body, Orzammar couldn’t survive without everyone.” Kit shrugs. “It won’t be much, but it _will_ change while I’m gone.”

“Yes, but how about the food?” Alistair asks, shoveling casserole into his mouth at the end of the sentence. He isn’t slowing down.

“You dumbass.” Daveth takes another drink.

Alistair shrugs. “Tell me you aren’t curious,” he says before shoveling his last spoonful of goop. He gets up to retrieve another bowlful.

“Yeah, but she’s talking about lifeblood, and you’re all—never mind.”

“The food’s different,” Kit offers. “We have more sausage and lichen, often in dumplings and pastries. No mash stew.” Kit allows a spoonful to drop into her bowl. “A lot less jerky and hard tack. Rica, my sister, gets fruit jam if we’re lucky. She’s an amazing baker. She gives us the ones that don’t look right.” Kit considers. “You Surfacers have the actual fruit, right? We get it as jam down h—in Orzammar.”

“We’ll get fruit when summer starts. Well, assuming the Blight leaves us any. If you think it’s good as jam, you should try it fresh,” Alistair says.

“You eat it raw? The Surface is weird,” she mutters into her beer, noticing the way Daveth and Jory smile. “Beer’s good, though. That might take getting used to.”

“You get different beer in Orzammar?” Jory asks.

“Yeah. Real dwarven ale is brewed with 50% or more lichen. The fine people at Tapsters make beer out of lichen, dirt, nugskin… Not sure how nugskin works, to be honest.”

“What’s lichen taste like?” Daveth says between bites.

“Had spinach?” Kit shrugs at their ‘duh’ looks. “Tastes like spinach and rocks, but with more of an earthy tone and less crunchy.”

“Lichen tastes like rocks?” Jory says.

“You don’t eat rocks here?”

“No.” Jory’s eyes are wide.

“Good. Us either, that’s ridiculous.” Kit pauses while Alistair and Daveth crack up. “Okay, here’s my thing. I don’t understand all the wood. Don’t you burn wood?”

“Yes,” Daveth says, wiping his eyes and waving at the fire. “That’s wood.”

“Why build with something that burns?” Kit asks. “Duncan told me you build entire houses from wood, and that seems like a problem.”

“It can be, but… wood’s easier to handle,” says Jory thoughtfully. “We haul material to the building site, and stone would require more trucks and manpower. Also, wood can be nailed together, so thinner walls stand up in wind.”

“Yeah, but couldn’t use dirt?” Kit asks.

Jory shrugs. “Dirt crumbles if you don’t do it right. A few people use sod to build their homes, but they do repairs often.”

“On the other hand, they stay warmer in winter,” Alistair points out.

“And their homes don’t burn down,” Kit adds.

“Both good points. If there’s a fire, it burns off the grass over top. As long as everyone’s inside, they’re fine.”

“Do you have Deep Roads bikes here? The kind that drive everywhere?”

“We have bikes, but they’re only good if the streets are smooth,” Daveth offers.

“No, no, I mean Proving bikes,” Kit says. “Bikes that can take stairs and jumps and get you across the Deep Roads without having to touch darkspawn.”

“That sounds useful,” Alistair says, swigging his beer.

“You gotta ride ’em right, pretty boy. I’m not sure you could handle it.” The soup is getting less tasty as Kit gets less hungry. She’s got one bite left. She wonders how Alistair finished his second bowl.

“You’re probably right.” He shrugs, winks, and gets up to fill a third.

“So train him!” Daveth says.

“What?” Alistair calls from the pot near the smaller cook fire.

“Train us all!” Daveth says to Kit, ignoring him. “We’re Grey Wardens, right? Grey Wardens travel the Deep Roads, when darkspawn don’t come to us. Train us how to ride if you’re so good.”

Kit’s less startled each time her Caste doesn’t matter up here. “Am a good driver but  suck at teaching. If get a bike, can watch and learn. If teach, run crying to your mothers, and would face darkspawn alone. Maybe can be my roar.” She shoves that last bite in her mouth and decides she’s found her fill line.

“What?” Jory says.

“Can be the warrior riding behind or in a sidecar.”

“That’s not what I heard…”

“Most drivers have a partner in the Deep Roads. Swing a sword and shoot the darkspawn or whatever. Call them warriors.” Kit’s lying. Nobles call them warriors. Carta calls them roars.

“We need two more dwarves unless you teach us,” Daveth points out.

“More than two,” Alistair mutters into his spoon.

Kit snorts into her beer again. “Need bike skill to be a warrior, too. Should have seen my last one, Raneka, dancing around back there. Think Grey Wardens don’t have drivers? Or better teachers? Learn from them or cower, because can’t teach for shit.”

“Can you see mistakes?” Daveth says.

“See _when_ but not what.”

“Can you speak clearly?” Jory adds.

Kit dislikes his tone. “Clear as the piss of a well-hydrated bronto.”

“You could teach me,” Alistair interrupts, plopping on the rail with another full bowl.

“Aren’t listening!” Kit snaps.

“Alistair’s got it hot for teacher,” Daveth says.

“Not a teacher!” Kit objects. “Carta thug with no time for your bullshit.”

“I don’t have time for my bullshit, either,” Alistair says, shrugging. “Sounds perfect.”

“Carta? How do you know the Deep Roads if you’re Carta? Dusters aren’t allowed in the Deep Roads,” Jory says.

“Sure as Void’s dark don’t have Stone Sense, how do you know Carta?” Kit says.

“I was stationed with templars for a few weeks. They were familiar with dwarven social strata.” Jory shrugs. “It was a boring watch.”

“Will bet,” Kit says, agreeing with everything. “Should know Carta glean lyrium from the Roads, allowed or not. Mining’s efficient by hand where the miner caste gets more slag with big machines.”

“You cover theft with your ‘gleaning’ is more like. And you’re no miner, by hand or otherwise,” Jory says.

Kit grips her patience in both hands. She grins and takes out her hand pick, good for rock and skulls, but not much else. When the men flinch, she puts it away and says, “Know the Deep Roads because I know my _business_.”

“You’re no Deep Roads driver. You dream of what others do,” Jory says, not getting the hint.

“Why ask questions if know my culture? Don’t know me and never seen me drive. So fuck off.”

Jory sits straight, rocking back, eyes boring into her. _Looks direct from the Diamond Quarter._ “Outrageous. I should”—

“Should what, sparkle-toes? Not Noble”—she points at him, then herself—“not Casteless. Void, are _both_ wannabes, neither Grey Wardens. Go home and get your army. Then maybe can front.”

“Look who’s fronting,” Jory spits. “You say you’re the best, but you’ve never driven the Deep Roads. Isn’t that what your best do?”

“No, our best win the Provings.” _Too easy._

“Dusters can enter the Provings now?” Jory knows the answer.

He steels at the challenge in Kit’s wide grin, the first positive sign for Jory’s survival.

“Dusters aren’t allowed in the Provings on pain of death,” she says.

“So how can you claim”—

“Why do think I’m here?” Kit gets more pissed off at Jory’s widening eyes and slackening jaw. “I raced the Proving held in Duncan’s honor. I _beat_ veterans of the Deep Roads, including King Aeducan’s second child. Because of who my mother is,”—Kit tilts her face to highlight her brand in the firelight —“nobles sentenced me to die for being the best.” Kit empties the dregs of her tankard. “Put that in your mug and drink it, sparkler.”

As Kit stalks away to her tent, she hears Jory mutter behind her, “Sparkler? Is that supposed to be bad?”

Daveth laughs. “Dwarven nobles are from the Diamond Quarter. Perhaps she thinks you've got one up your ass?”

“How do you know…”

“You know your one dwarven fact, I know mine. Do you want to question another low-life tonight, _sparkler_?”

In her tent, Kit de-armors for bed. She hears the other Grey Wardens return from their drills. She considers returning, but she can’t stomach taking more bullshit, meeting the Grey Warden who will drink even a dwarf under the table. She pulls a pillow over her head against the loud converation and goes to sleep instead.

###

Kit feels better in the morning. Jory approachs her as they’re gearing up for the Korcari Wilds and says, “Look… It’s outrageous that you weren’t allowed in the Provings, and I’m sorry for doubting your ability.”

Kit looks up from where she’s digging through the Warden stash of spare armor. “Your sparkly tone bothers me, but the apology helps.”

Jory smiles. “I’ll try to remember we’re all in-between Wardens and what we were before.”

“Knock yourself out,” Kit says with a shrug.

Jory stands straighter, giving a formal bow and a smirk. “It shall be a pleasure to accompany you on this quest, fellow recruit.”

 _Asshole._ But Kit suppresses a smile as he goes to fetch his pack.

The full Grey Wardens have returned to drilling, except Alistair. Over among the glass towers, are shouting and hitting things with wooden sticks. The camp has a ghost-town feel, dirty tankards tipped and scattered among tools for maintenance of body armor and weapons.

Kit leaves her camping gear, but brings every weapon she owns and anything with even a trace of elfroot. When she asks, Alistair says he packed health poultices and an injury kit.

Once they leave the camp, Alistair stops them in the Korcari Wilds. “Now that we’re away from curious ears, I can give more detail. This is part one of your rite of passage into the Grey Wardens. We’ll meet one of our allies in the woods. Collect the documents she provides and find out what her price is. We’ll agree to it, but don’t let her know that. You have a second mission: gather three vials of darkspawn blood.”

“So, explain something,” Kit asks. “Darkspawn near Orzammar hate the light. Dwarves use torches and lanterns to fend them off. Have to be clever or they flank, but…”

“It’s the Archdemon. They force the darkspawn through their pain against the light. That’s what makes a Blight: darkspawn able to enter sunlight and organized by an Archdemon.”

“Shit,” Kit says. “Know at home, right?”

“In Orzammar? That depends on Duncan, but they can guess what it means when a Grey Warden invokes the Right of Conscription,” Alistair assures her.

Jory clears his throat nervously. “We’re sure an Archdemon is leading them? Couldn’t they mutate and become light-resistant?”

“We’re sure,” Alistair says, and Kit glances at him. His eyes are serious, shoulders squared, and voice steady like when he was explaining templars and mages. This is the confidence she’d expect from a Grey Warden. “When it’s a mutation, a few darkspawn stray to the surface. They do damage, but villiage militia kill them fast. The entire darkspawn horde must be forced by an Archdemon.”

Jory doesn’t seem ready to let it go. “Yeah, but”—

“Look, we know the Blight is real,” Alistair confesses, “but I can only explain after the Joining.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daveth says, brushing by Jory. “Grey Wardens and their secrets.”

“Ex-actly. Now let’s go.” Alistair waves a hand toward their path, and Kit leads the way.

###

The most disturbing part is how dwarven it looks. A hand’s width taller than Kit, the genlock wears armor patchier than a Carta noob and coated in loose charcoal-black powder. The same dark grey traces veins under its hairless skin, deadening its complexion. Pointed ears. Should smell horrible and rotted, but over the swamp stink Kit only smells a hint of apples. It shrieks like metal tearing and reaches for its gun.

“There’s your first darkspawn,” Alistair says, putting a hand to his heart, then drawing his sword. “A touching moment, brings a tear to my eye.”

“Are you serious? Wow, those things are uglier than humans!”

“Hey!” Jory and Daveth chorus, equally horrified by the monster, now approaching and aiming.

“My dear lady, I am always serious! The soul of seriousness, I am. I’m affronted and appalled that”—

“Affront and appall later, Alistair! It’s attacking!” The swamp slurps a bullet by her feet. _It has the casual aim of an untrained roar._

“Right! Let’s go!” he says, heading that way.

Kit runs straight to the darkspawn, snarling. Doesn’t pull back like a mark: Shoots her! Glances off kevlar, bruising deep. Next hits arm. Wet contact triggers nano in the bullet. _Rich darkspawn?_ Crackling light numbs wrist to shoulder; hard to move. Pins-and-needles up her neck. Daveth appears behind the genlock and cuts through the back of its neck. Head flops forward. Done! No, bullet pings Daveth’s body armor, tearing long, ratty coat. Follow: better aim from second genlock. Look! Hurlock, human-based darkspawn, with monster sword.

Kit hangs back with Daveth. Jory and Alistair each close with a darkspawn. The genlock keeps backing up. Alistair stabs the swamp in leu of a weapon rack, pulls his gun, steadies his aim on shield, and shoots. He misses, misses… one hit slows it. Alistair drops gun, pulls sword, and bashes genlock with shield.

Jory cries, “It’s spit me through!” Holds his gut as hurlock hefts bloodied sword again.

Kit shouts, “Focus, sparkle toes! Death eminent!” Heading for Alistair, she’s too far.

Daveth stabs the hurlock behind, hitches its strike. Jory deflects with his two-hand sword. The blighted sword glances off shoulder armor. He gulps elfroot before hurlock hefts third time. Daveth stabs armor gaps twice.

Gunshot Alistair’s way. Kit sprints to stab that second gunner. It notices. Bullets bruise her side and crack her armor.

“Paragons’ collective hairy asses!” Kit throws a handful of mud in its face, stabbing as it paws its eyes.

“Hey,” Alistair shouts, “fungus guts! Your life choices are bad, and you lost your beard long before you were Blighted!” That does it.

Kit slips behind the genlock and stabs repeatedly, doing enough damage between armor pieces that the genlock turns around and aims at her head. _Shit._ She dodges sideways and hits the gun hand up. _Definitely_ smells like apples. Alistair stabs at the armor gap she’d widened, and it collapses in slow-motion, eyes wide to the sky.

“ ‘Sparkle-toes’?” Jory says as the hurlock falls.

“You shouldn’t charge up to them,” Daveth chides.

“ _Yes_ sparkle-toes; thanks for the _tip_ , Daveth; Alistair, I need a beard- _sucking_ health poultice for my _bullet wound!_ ” Kit taps her arm to check for feeling and winces.

Alistair gives her a poultice, and the three men stare as she slathers it on the injury and covers it.

“Appreciate attention of handsome men, but stop staring,” she snaps.

“It’s a poultice,” Alistair says, slapping his forehead. “A _poultice_. You put it _on_ the part that’s injured.”

“Hit your head?” Kit inquires. Her fingers twitch, and tries not to scratch the bandage off as the elfroot-co-opted nanites knit her flesh together. _How does stand the itch?_

“What happened to ‘recruit’?” Jory demands.

“We’re all recruits here.” Kit says. “Alistair, how do we collect its blood?”

“How about ‘Jory’?” he’s working up a froth. Cultural misunderstandings or something. Alistair stays out of it, grabs a vial, and fusses with the genlock’s body.

Kit puts her hands on her hips. “How about got mad and moved fast enough you could yell at me.”

After a moment, Jory grins at her. “You’re a twerp, you know that.”

“Hey, twerps are little, unlike me,” Kit says, bouncing a small stone off his armor. Kit turns to Daveth and says, “Sorry about snapping. Was in pain if it’s any excuse. No charging. I’m used to opponents running, hence fast approach. Could give me pointers?”

Daveth laughs and says, “You’re in luck. I tutored street urchins on how not to die.”

Kit chuckles, realizing he’s referring to their conversation yesterday about teaching. She’s careful not to smile more than a smirk. “Better you than me,” she says.

“Our friends can charge and scream,” Daveth starts. “You can’t cow darkspawn. Blight removes their fear, so intimidation attracts them.” Kit nods.

“Let’s say Jory here is our moldy victim,” he continues.

“Hey!”

“Why are you complaining?” Alistair pouts. “You’re not left out.”

“Huh. Our warriors are such delicate orchids,” Daveth says. “So I’m watching this one, but I’m also watching for buddies to warn him. Of course, it’s easier when one of our warriors gets his attention.”

“There you go, Alistair, a role for you,” Kit says, nodding to him.

He responds with a yell Kit wouldn’t have risked with darkspawn nearby and charges up to Jory, waving his arms wildly and bulging his eyes. Kit wonders where his sword is supposed to be.

“Excellent,” Daveth says. Kit suspects Jory’s rolling his eyes. “Our mark’s attention is on the big, scary, well-armored brute. Now daggers out at first threat so he can’t hear me draw. Careful steps.”

Kit mocks pulling out her dagger and her pick, like Daveth’s imaginary daggers. Jory glances toward her, but Alistair gives a wordless mocking shout, and Jory faces him again.

“You see?” Daveth says. “Now, don’t step on anything loud until you’ve stabbed him somewhere sensitive.” Daveth leaps and taps his empty fists against Jory’s neck and a gap in his armor. The blade twist he mimes would have guaranteed damage to a kidney. “You should get that covered,” he says, tapping it harder.

It takes Kit a few tries to sneak up on Jory without getting his attention. Then Alistair and Jory switch, and she takes more tries to catch Alistair.

“Excellent. Walk with me when we find the next Darkspawn.”

“Thanks again,” Kit says.

Kit messes up Daveth’s sneaking the first time, but Alistair finishes off the last darkspawn before anyone gets hurt. The next time, Daveth gets in a good attack that finishes Jory’s work. They collect their second vial of black thick blood from that body. Jory roars at and defends from the next lone darkspawn, and Kit makes the killing blow.

Then they stumble upon a group of darkspawn.

“Fuck!” Daveth says.

“She’s ready,” Alistair replies, as if he’s explaining something.

“She’s right here.”

Alistair shrugs and gets out his sword and shield. “All right, who wants some?”

Kit follows in Daveth’s footsteps until he makes his first attack, then she continues up the hill to stab a victim of her own. Doesn’t kill the hurlock outright, and everyone else has their own problems, so when it spins on her, she has two choices: fight or run.

Kit’s got no practice in running _away_.

Hurlock with bottle-green glass-head arrows backs up. Kit stays close and slashes. No glass for her kevlar. Darkspawn armor doesn’t fit: easy to slice inner wrists and thigh. Pickaxe tucks neatly behind its clavicle, toward lungs. Wound bleeds and sucks as the creature collapses.

Once it’s down, Kit hides to take stock of the battlefield. Jory and Daveth tag-team a few nasty customers. Alistair is on a darkspawn with staff and surrounded by a cloud of nano. Darkspawn nano pilot?! Not good. Glitter swarms Alistair’s shoulder. Kit slips over to stab between ribs below shoulder blades. Pilot collapses but arrow into her ribs _shit_. Pulls damn out, cursing glass inventor, and dodges another. Alistair bellows, charging hurlock archer. Everything notices him. Kit slips behind the archer and slides knife and pick under armor into kidneys. It collapses, shaking in pain.

Jory and Daveth each fell one. No more victims, so slices collapsed hurlock throat, still reaching for arrows.

“Good job, team!” Kit exclaims, thrilled because _survival_. This is why she and Leske advanced fast in the Carta. She dreads dying, but this feeling is unbeatable.

_Paragons, I hope Leske’s okay._

Alistair smiles at her. “You do smile sometimes,” he says while Jory collects the third vial of darkspawn blood.

Kit feels her smile shift, and Alistair backpedals. “Or not! That is definitely not smiling.”

Jory and Daveth snap their jaws shut. “She’s smiling,” Daveth jokes. “She’s covered in darkspawn blood.”

“Completely deadly,” Jory nods and chucks Kit on the shoulder. It confuses the hell out of her until Daveth does the same to him. “Granted, we’re _all_ covered in darkspawn blood,” he says, teetering with the friendly blow.

“We survived!” Daveth crows. “Maker, I wasn’t sure we would, halfway in.”

 _I’ve been… accepted that easily?_ Kit relaxes, and Alistair returns her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaps of love on Rosehip and MadamSnark for the beta! I do my best to listen to their wisdom, but sometimes I don’t, so mistakes and problems are mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus! Others’ amazing, immersive AU’s inspired me. Two that pop to mind are:  
> [Undefeated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395161) by [Fawx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fawx/pseuds/Fawx)
> 
> A rich, gritty 80’s brawler AU, keeping the magical parts of the game. It re-imagines DA:2 with a smart and strong (in every sense) Fenris/fem!Hawke pairing. Incomplete. 
> 
> [The Night is Long](https://archiveofourown.org/works/753212) by [accidental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidental/pseuds/accidental)
> 
> A lush nightmare of a modern AU. Check the tags. Story of escape from an abuser. Beautiful and ugly in turns, wonderfully written. Complete. 
> 
>  
> 
> Spoiler: Morrigan has the first speaking line in the next chapter.


	8. Not All Who Wander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three darkspawn vials, check. Now where are those treaties?  
> Also, Morrigan and Alistair nearly get everyone killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I de-centered the Warden, making Duncan into Flemeth’s contact point and the new kids into messengers.
> 
> Don’t worry, Dog is fine. I plan to add Dog to the party during Return to Ostagar if I write that far.
> 
> I wanted to have them fight on ice, but there’s no ice in the Korcari Wilds. Conclusion? Salt-water swamp.

A smooth voice flows from the swamp, dampening Alistair’s spirits and putting him on guard.

“What do we have here?” the swamp-voice lilts or taunts. _Probably taunts._

He follows the sound to find a young human woman rising over the hill to greet them. Or at least examine them. She’s lowering a bright purple silk hood, attached to a cowl that drapes in front and back over a simple black bikini top. Her heavy necklace covers more than that bikini. _Brr._ Her skirt of belts and ragged leather distracts Alistair with trying to figure out if there’s a single piece underneath holding it together. Under the skirt, she’s wearing black leather leggings that are thick enough for low-speed bike armor and the longest, stompiest boots Alistair has ever seen, far longer than Kit’s brown mid-calf boots with their hidden knives.

“Are you poachers, I wonder? Or heroes against the darkspawn? You know you’ll never last, just the four of you, against the main horde, so nearby.”

“I told you,” Jory starts, but Alistair cuts in.

“We’re well aware of where the horde is, thank you.”

“Did I ask you?” she turns to Kit. “Why are you here?”

“Careful, she looks Chasind,” Alistair says, “that means others may be nearby.”

“You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” the woman says, waving her hands and _definitely_ taunting.

“Yes,” Alistair says. “Swooping is bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth cries. “She’ll turn us into toads!” Alistair can’t help but agree with the possibility. This woman is everything the Chantry trained him to fight. Sure, she’s talking, but she may signal her companions and start a conflict any moment.

“Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, these legends. Have you no minds of your own?” She turns to Kit. “You there! Does your dwarven perspective give more wisdom than these fools? Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized.”

“My name is Kit Brosca, though ‘civilized’ isn’t a big goal.”

_Seriously?_ Alistair shrugs internally.

“That is close enough, here in the Wilds,” she says, waving a hand and smiling. Jory snorts, and the smile vanishes. “You may call me Morrigan.”

“You’re Morrigan?” Alistair says, blinking. They might escape without a fight. “Duncan sent us to find you. Sorry, uh. You look like an apostate.”

“What the void is your problem?” Kit snaps. “If are looking for her, is here to help.”

“You clearly have more sense than your companions. Tell me, what do you think of all this?”

“I think Grey Wardens take help wherever it’s found, from the King of Ferelden to a Witch of the Wilds, if that’s what you are.”

“Practical,” Morrigan says with a satisfied nod.

_That’s not a denial,_ Alistair thinks grimly.

“Do you have the treaties?” Kit asks. Alistair smirks. _How’s that for practical, witch-face?_ No, her face isn’t witchy. _What about her just screams ‘witch’?_

“I shall take you to my mother’s house. She has your treaties, as agreed,” Morrigan says. Alistair feels queasy. Out here, Morrigan was not likely targeted by the roving chippers. What mother chips her child?

There’s no way to mention this to Kit, who says, “Excellent, thanks.” Then again… with Grey Warden treaties on the line, they have no choice.  

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will!” Daveth says.

“If the pot’s warmer than this swamp, it’d be a nice change,” Jory mutters.

Alistair follows Kit’s lead and ignores them both. Morrigan guides them through the swamp, sometimes telling them to stay while she scouts ahead to steer around darkspawn. She avoids wild animals, too, so he’s content to let her guide.

She leads them to a hut, swamp weeds from the tides painting the lower half of its stilts green and brown.

Kit climbs the stairs behind Morrigan, so she misses the concerned glances from Daveth and Jory’s rolling eyes.

Morrigan’s mother is on the wide porch waiting for them. There’s a wooden screen door into the hut. She stands from her rocking chair, setting aside a mortar and pestle fragrant with crushed herbs.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan announces, “I bring before you four Grey Wardens who”—

“I see them, girl. Hm. Much as I expected,” she says.

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth’s terror focuses Alistair’s fear. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!” Two mages against the four of them… might be tricky, but Kit powered through that darkspawn’s electric bullet and his underarmor has a thin nano-resistant layer. They might fight free.

“Quiet, Daveth. If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?” Jory says. Alistair keeps his face neutral.

“There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it’s not I that decides, believe what you will,” Morrigan’s mother says.

_No. She can’t know._ Alistair closes his eyes. _They might all survive the Joining._

“And what of you?” the mother asks Kit. Engaging Kit after that dismissal of Jory is reassuring if she can tell. _Impossible._ _How could she tell?_ “Do you possess a different view, or do you believe as the others do?”

“I believe you have something we need.”

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, mother,” Morrigan says.

_Ah, so her mother makes up stories. Or wildly disturbing guesses._

“True. They came for their treaties, did they not?” She digs out three ancient data sticks. “Take these to your Grey Wardens and tell them the threat of this Blight is greater than they realize.”

“What do you mean?” Kit asks.

“Either the threat is more, or they realize less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or they realize nothing!” Morrigan’s mother cackles. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for, but you must pay the price.”

“What price?”

“You will take Morrigan. Not into the Ostagar camp, but when you leave to put your treaties to use.”

“I’m not helpless, Mother,” Morrigan says, strangely embarrassed.

“And so you will help the Wardens.”

“Help how?” Kit asks.

Morrigan shrugs. “The poisons and foods of this swamp would be dangerous to confuse.”

“I’m sure you’ll clear that _right_ up for us,” Alistair says, “but we’re facing darkspawn.”

“I am not unfamiliar with battle,” Morrigan says, glaring at him.

“I’ll bet you aren’t,” he snarks. “Apostates are _great_ in a fight.”

“Yes,” Morrigan snaps, “I use nano outside the control your ridiculous Chantry. You might find I have useful techniques the Chantry pilots do not.”

“So you’re joining us?” Kit asks in that dry tone Alistair associates with her better moods.

“What! I…”

“You’d be welcome. Duncan appreciates even unconventional help against the Blight,” Kit continues.

“I… would join you, yes,” Morrigan says. An image pops to mind of Morrigan in a roadside camp, crowing at some joke and cradling a mug of beer.

Alistair blurts, “What are you doing?”

Kit looks at him. Suddenly, Alistair spots advantages to having a mage on the next mission. Duncan can’t spare Warden nano pilots for a diplomatic mission, but if they’re waylaid by bandits…

“Right. Good point.” He sighs. “I’ll be over here.”

###

_These fools are useless moving through the swamp. Perhaps Mother is correct about some things._ Morrigan tries to guide them on the firmest paths, but Alistair strays and ends up pulling a lost boot from the gripping mud. When she gives up and uses the paths most convenient for her, Alistair and the other two men slog through on brute strength, stirring up the muck. In contrast, Kit learns quickly: she lifts her feet, moving cautiously to not disturb the water.

The dwarf might be worthwhile. ’Tis tempting to talk with Kit at length about dwarven customs, but the old fear grips Morrigan. If she’s not careful, she could trust. Everyone has an agenda. Everyone. And everyone would throw their so-called friends under the nearest proverbial bus for the chance to achieve it. Does she not have her own aim? Yes, well, buses shouldn’t be necessary.

For example, Alistair might be capable of maliciousness toward an ‘apostate.’ Of all the antiquated… Morrigan huffs, glaring at him. He survived longer than he should against that darkspawn pilot when she was observing them. She knows what he is, whatever colors he may wear.

“What is it, Witch?” he says.

“Use actual names,” Kit growls.

Morrigan smirks, vindicated. “I was thinking plaid is an odd choice with motorcycle armor.”

“You may not have noticed,” says Alistair with a hand-flick at her clothing, “but it’s cold in your swamp.”

“The Wilds are not mine,” Morrigan snaps, “and your _style_ is horrible.”

“Not your swamp? You act like it is.”

Morrigan realizes she’s fighting the unarmed in a battle of wits and shrugs. “Think what you like. The whole of the Korcari Wilds is mine, and your apparel is still tasteless.”

She takes the lead again, ignoring Alistair, who says, “Wait!”

Morrigan steps into a clearing… and a group of darkspawn. She can smell apples, she’s so close.

Silently cursing herself for a fool—she’d forgotten to check ahead—Morrigan takes her staff off her back, sends out a pulse of stunning energy, and surveys the field.

Nearest are three darkspawn: two hurlocks and a knife-wielding genlock. Morrigan moves away while they’re stunned, pleased that the others attack them. They didn’t leave her.

A shattered piece of the old highway is here, pylons holding platforms of asphalt above the swamp. Eager vines cover one platform, but another holds a trio of genlocks with guns and a bow. They will be her job. She catches all three in a vulnerability hex. She sends tiny sonic nano to disorient one, shoots small pellets of nano at the second, and freezes the third. Thanks to her hex, this one freezes solid, the tiny bots flowing along trails of vulnerability nano under its armor. She doesn’t relish these fools’ reaction when she turns into a spider, so she shoots more pellets, waiting for her staff to prepare enough ice nano to freeze a second genlock.

Before her staff is ready, though, a vibration ripples the water. An ogre shakes the swamp: _boom, boom, boom_. Morrigan has never even glimpsed a creature so large and muscular. She wonders if it lifted the genlocks to their platform with one hand. It roars and charges the warriors and rogues, who are finishing the smaller darkspawn on the ground.

“Move!” Kit says, and they dive out of the way. While she’s distracted, Morrigan gets shot in the shoulder and loses use of her right arm. Her ambient nano puts out the fire stored in the bullet, and her chip cuts the pain to bearable levels. She sends nano to steal muscle and skin from the ogre. She gets her arm back, but there’s still an open wound.

Kit shouts at Morrigan, “Concentrate on the genlocks up there. We’ll take care of this guy, stay out of his way.”

“Naturally!” Morrigan crystallizes the gunner, but the archer gets Jory in the shoulder as he taunts the ogre.

“Void damn!” Jory shouts when the glass arrow cuts through his fancy kevlar like butter. Daveth is flat on his back in shallow water, and Morrigan has no clue how he got there, but at least he’s getting up. Not wishing to face the ogre on her own, Morrigan sends more sonic nano at the archer, and his next shot hits the ogre. Morrigan chuckles, then remembers a spell she saved in case she fights with others. It sends a steady stream of nano to her companions and makes their weapons bite with a chill: frost weapons. To her surprise, her own nano pellets also have an extra kick. She finishes the last genlock off with another flesh-stealing spell just as the ogre picks Kit up in one enormous hand, squeezing and waving her around. Kit’s screaming with anger.

As Morrigan casts another vulnerability hex on the ogre, Alistair gives a shout of his own and rams into the brute with his shield. Morrigan notes a whisper from the vulnerability nano as it funnels the blow to vulnerable spots. Her chip silences it at her dismissal. His shield bash doesn’t topple the ogre, but the creature drops Kit. Alistair shouts again while Kit swallows a dose of elfroot potion and the other two, Daveth and Jory, slog closer. Morrigan casts her ice spell again. It only slows large targets, but it’s enough. No one else gets injured when the ogre tries a sweeping blow: Alistair braces his shield and the others dodge. Then they attack: Daveth slashing behind the knees, Kit climbing to stab under the armpits, Jory seeking gaps in the abdominal armor, and Alistair slicing gashes in its left arm and side. Morrigan casts disorienting nano a third time, and it’s dead before it makes another attack.

They gasp for breath, leaning on staff and sword and knees.

“We should have told you sooner,” says Kit as she stands. “Alistair can sense darkspawn.”

“Kit,” he says, head snapping up.

“Don’t give me ‘Warden secrets,’ Alistair,” she growls back. “Her not knowing is high-fucking-risk.”

“A practical approach,” Morrigan says. She balances her pride against the risk. “Alistair, if it pleases you.” She gestures at the swamp toward the King’s camp.

As he shrugs and takes the lead, Morrigan sifts her secrets for any dangerous to _this_ group. None that she can foresee. Should she ask Mother? No, Morrigan won’t cling to her apron strings. If she is to leave, then let her be gone. She resolves not to return to Mother’s hut while she waits for her new companions to complete their business.

“Morrigan, how do you make things freeze?” Kit asks, pausing collect an elfroot with her dagger.

Morrigan shrugs. “’Twould be simpler to describe stabbing things.”

Kit huffs. “Grip the daggers like this, move fast, practice, talk with other stabbers, learn the weak spots, and try to hit those. Spill.”

“Nanobots did it,” Morrigan says, annoyed by the questioning but amused by the herb collection. A rare and valuable healing herb with a white flower and dark center sits six inches from the elfroot, but Kit is well-pleased with her find.  

“I’m interested in the mechanics. How does a tiny machine freeze things because you tell it to with an electronic chip in your head?”

“The explanation is long. It is nano. Is that not enough?”

“Come on! Please?” Kit begs.

“I’d rather not.”

Kit makes a disgusted noise but drops the subject. Morrigan is glad to avoid describing the algorithm necessary to keep the floating nano materials close enough to freeze flesh without blocking the hint of heat it takes to trigger them.

Alistair warns them of a large cluster of darkspawn.

“I shall scout ahead,” Morrigan says. Once out of sight, she climbs a sturdy tree. Morrigan straps herself in, pulls out a pair of optical sensors, and sends a nano bird to find a detour, looking through its eyes.

As she leads them, Morrigan tricks Alistair into stepping in mud deeper than calf-height. He squelches delightfully to the King’s camp, bemoaning his luck in the fading light.

Morrigan stops well before they enter. “I can go no further,” she tells them. The shadows are getting deep, and she wants a better place to sleep. A tall and sturdy tree further from the road will do.

“Such a shame,” Alistair says. “Don’t want to be spotted by templars, I take it?”

“Remember I am an ally,” she replies.

“How will we contact you again?” Kit asks. “Does anyone have a FadeCell?”

Everyone shakes their heads, even Alistair. “Grey Wardens have to get…” he glances at Morrigan, “…special upgrades to our Cells. If you’d had one, Duncan would have borrowed it for the techs.”

Kit shrugs. “We could agree on a rendezvous.”

“There’s an old crossroads just north of Ostagar on the main road. We could meet there tomorrow morning,” Alistair suggests. “That should give us enough time to complete our business. I must warn you… Duncan determines the assignments. Others or fewer might join me.”

“That crossroads is very… open,” Morrigan says.

“You could watch the meeting spot and join us when we get here,” Kit suggests.

Morrigan nods. “Send no more templars in Grey Warden clothing, and I shall meet you there.”

Kit guffaws. “She pegged you right off, Chantry boy.”

Alistair shrugs. “My training comes in useful as a Grey Warden.” Alistair considers. “Let’s not mention Morrigan in the King’s camp without Duncan’s say-so.”

Kit, Daveth, and Jory nod. Daveth has never lost the nervous edge to his gaze, but it’s gotten better since their fight with the ogre. Not that he matters. Not that _any_ of them do.

“We shall meet soon enough, then.” Morrigan strides into the swamp.

###

Alistair sits on the old guard rail to dump his boots and pull on fresh socks. He flips his boots next to the fire, the way Warden Chibuzo showed him.

They’re back late, but the four of them settle together to eat chunks of bready stew the other Wardens left, congealed in the bottom of the pot. Alistair scoops out a healthy serving. The brown crust is blackening, so he dribbles beer over the edges and moves it away from the fire. Alistair settles nearby with his charges and stretches his tired hands.

“Alistair, can please stop?” Kit cringes.

“Sorry, what was I doing?” Alistair glances around and under his seat to gather clues.

“Cracking your knuckles. Again,” Kit scoffs.

“Oh, I didn’t realize.”

“Why do you crack them?” Jory asks, poking at his stew.

“I stretch my hands, and they pop. It’s soothing.”

“Get healing nanites; got those up here, right? Sound’s not normal,” Kit says.

Alistair mumbles, “Sorry, I’ll… try to avoid it when you’re around.”

“Oh, come on,” Daveth says. “Why does it bother you so much?” _Hey, someone on my side! Neat._

“Dislike people who crack knuckles. Am working with Alistair.”

“Oh, ho!” Jory says. “We have time for a tale. Who cracked their hateful knuckles?”

Kit smirks. “Thought leave our former lives behind when become Grey Wardens.”

Jory grins encouragingly. “Alistair has that excuse. _We_ are not Grey Wardens, yet!”

“Close enough,” Daveth mutters.

“It’s fine. Former colleague cracked her knuckles.” ‘Former colleague’ means Carta, but that’s not terribly different from Alistair and the templars. “Harassed my sister.” Kit produces the evilest grin yet. “Came around during discussions.” From Kit’s tone and smile, these discussions involved blood, probably screaming.

Daveth snickers. “Well, you’re safe. I can’t imagine Alistair disrespecting your sister.”

“He’d better not!” Kit says, not smiling evilly anymore but facing him.

“No! No, I wouldn’t!” Alistair rushes to assure her. “I’m sure your sister is quite lovely.” He draws back at Kit’s frown and tries to backpedal: “Wait! I wouldn’t… do anything because she’s lovely. I don’t know her, so there’s no way I would disrespect her. Not that I would if I did!”

Kit’s brow furrows in an effort not to laugh at him.

Daveth murmurs, “Alistair.”

“Yes?” He turns to Jory and Daveth’s side of the fire, feeling hopeless and desperate.

“Stop talking,” Jory advises. “You’re making it worse.”

“Right, okay.”

Kit chuckles. “You’re right, Daveth. My sister is safe from this one.” Kit taps Alistair on the upper arm with her fist, which leaves an ache. “You’re all right, Pup.” Not a nickname he’d pick for himself, but it’s better than nothing. She scoops up a bite of stew.  

“So, Jory,” Kit says after she swallows. “Why are you becoming a Grey Warden?”

“I won a tournament for the honor.”

Kit huffs a laugh. “So have something in common after all?”

“It’s different,” Daveth says. “Victory was a crime for you, and you didn’t know being a Grey Warden was the… prize.”

“It’s not always top prize,” Alistair says, glad for the subject change. “I didn’t win my tournament, but Duncan chose me over better fighters.”

“So you’re the one he spoke of!” Jory says. “He must have spotted something during your bouts.”

Alistair grins. “I hope so.”

“Kit, why did you compete in a Proving illegally?” Jory asks. Apparently they ‘came to an understanding’ when Alistair wasn’t looking, because she doesn't snap back.

“I’d always wanted to compete,” Kit says. “Ancestors favor Proving winners. Showed favor was possible for dusters. Even if lost, drove better next to the best.”

“So why are you still with the Wardens?” Daveth asks. “You could be a mercenary or smuggler.”

Kit shrugs. “Considered leaving once understood the Surface,” she admits, “but owe Duncan my life. Besides, Grey Wardens have the Assembly’s respect. Being recruited might honor the Brosca name to balance my ‘criminal’ behavior. My sister and mother are Broscas in Orzammar.”

“Lineage is important to dwarves, then,” Jory says. “What’s it like to worship your ancestors?”

“Nobles have shrines. Dusters aren’t allowed that shit.” Kit brushes the fringe on her jacket, strung with unusual charms. “Shouldn’t care since are slag of the Stone.” She shakes her head and continues.

“Who drastically improve Orzammar become Paragons. The last could be alive. Made a powerful battery for longer Deep Roads expeditions. Since most vehicles are Deep Roads castoffs, cleaned the lead off the streets, too. Made less work for duster street cleaners though. Our family uses old gas models. Lucky for Mom, Rica and I were old enough to earn lichen.” Kit shifts… Alistair guesses the hard seat is uncomfortable. “Point is, if help stop the Blight, go home covered in honor and glory, and family gets what they deserve.”

Jory chuckles. “That’s my goal, too,” he says. “We have different starting places, but I’m the third son and won’t inherit. My work as a knight provided for my wife and child, but I can improve their lot as a Warden.”

“At least had legal work,” Kit says. Daveth closes his mouth and points at her, nodding. Apparently he almost said the same.

“Look,” Alistair says. “We take everyone with talent because it’s the _Blight_ , but there’s more to being a Grey Warden than honor and glory.”

“Includes steady food and beer,” Kit says seriously. _Or is she joking?_ Her dry manner confuses Alistair.

“No, I’m saying…” He takes a breath. “Grey Wardens have honor and glory because the work we do is important. We save people every time we destroy darkspawn.”

“Look, my chance of becoming a Paragon is small. Let me cling to fantasy. Will grab our glory by killing darkspawn. Same results.”

_If you survive._ Alistair thinks. _This may be moot by morning._

He nods. “Fair enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Kit can’t say in front of Flemeth is that Duncan’s orders were to accept any conditions given.
> 
> Anyone else more jealous of a chip that helps with focus than a chip for stealing flesh from enemies? I wrote that and thought, damn, Morrigan, must be nice. No? Just me?
> 
> I might think too much about Alistair hanging out with Grey Warden recruits without being able to warn them.
> 
>  
> 
> All the love for my betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! They are marvelous! Any mistakes or problematic content are on me.
> 
> Find us on Tumblr: @starlanellfic, @october-rosehip, and @madamsnark.


	9. Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit survives her initiation into the Wardens… but at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure Broscas have a stronger gift of fear than most, but Kit trusts Alistair. You knew this was coming. No, I don’t fix it. Sorry.
> 
> This chapter ended up a smidge shorter, so I'm posting a day early as a bonus! Enjoy!
> 
> Also, please note the new tags.

Ostagar’s broken towers of metal and glass sparkle in the morning sunlight. Kit takes her coffee to the rail edging the ravine closest to camp and admires the dilapidated view. Entire houses and buildings below collapsed decades or maybe centuries before. The suspension bridge to her left has broken lines whipping wildly in the ravine’s wind. Everyone in Orzammar mentions the sky, but never the wind. It’s so _pushy_. The King’s ancient-architecture experts determined the amount of weight the bridge can support, so a guard stands at each end of the bridge. They’re using a special walkie channel to limit the number of people on it. They keep the line short, partly because people don’t cross unless they need to.

Ostagar lacks the smooth stone roads and walkways of Orzammar. Here, black roads are cracked and crazed, coated in stark white snow caught by the frozen weeds wedged between the cracks. Duncan had mentioned on the trip over that the growing season gets shorter the further south you travel. Kit wonders what the place looks like without the snow, whether snow melts this far south.

She’s distracted by a rattling step from the Grey Warden camp. Determined not to look, determined to trust, she tries to name the person by the sound they make. Heavier armor than Daveth, no extra swagger like Jory.

“You’re wanted for the Joining,” Alistair says. For once, he’s not making light. His voice is soft, as though he’s apologizing for interrupting her. “I’ll bring you up. It’s a private ceremony, out of everyone’s way.” Alistair nods to where Jory and Daveth are standing.

Kit sighs, downs the dregs of her coffee, and pushes away from the rail. “Should be grateful to belong here.” She waves her coffee cup over the canyon, watching him without looking.

“And are you?” Alistair says in that same voice.

Kit meets his eyes. He’s searching for something. She’s not sure she wants him to find it.

“Of course am,” she says lightly, tapping his shoulder as she passes. “Aren’t you?”

“Extremely,” he replies as she walks away. She almost doesn’t catch it. _Something’s wrong._

Kit drops off her mug and meets Alistair, Daveth, and Jory at the entrance to a building. Alistair’s solemn mood is infectious. Daveth and Jory, usually so talkative, nod to her. Inside, they crunch through shattered glass and snaking wind to the staircase, enclosed in walls of smooth artificial stone. The metal stairs pound and echo under their boots.

“Next floor,” Alistair says. They’ve been climbing steadily for a dozen floors, and no one is winded.

Jory presses a side lever before pushing the metal door. Nothing happens. Alistair produces a passcard with a smile, lets them in: swipe, green light, lever, push. Kit notices the lock and key are new, not worn like the rest of the building. Alistair puts in a code behind them. 

“So we’re not disturbed,” he says. Hairs stand on the back of Kit’s neck.

Inside, there’s a thin smattering of broken glass near the windows and a thin plastic mesh covering the floor, rotted carpet fibers still disintegrating in the corners. This entire floor was once someone’s home. They cross the suite to where the glass is still intact, and Alistair slides a glass door so they can step onto the terrace and meet Duncan. Alistair follows, sliding the door behind them and locking it silently with another code.

Kit fights the urge to find lines of escape. They are: 1) pickpocket or kill Alistair and use his key to get out the way they came or 2) jump over the rail. She edges toward Alistair to get the bump just right.

Duncan stands next to a built-in brazier in the center of the round terrace cleared of furniture and debris. A tall, flat, windowless building is a stone’s toss off the edge, but the lines of vision through the glass into the loft keep it from being claustrophobic. Kit spots flakes of metallic green paint on the smooth, false-stone wall. Remnants of an ancient mural? They might have put a useful, grippy texture into the wall instead: it’s too smooth for handholds. Above Duncan, the building slants from the top of the sliding glass door to continue the line of the building. The building across from them continues to be windowless for that entire height. Built for privacy as advertised.

_Not that anyone but Grey Wardens would be poking around old ruins when the King’s entire army is camped among them._ Kit checks the wall again for handholds and finds none. She manages not to go look over the rail at this building’s wall. _Probably glass._ But maybe the metal frames…

Duncan nods to Alistair as he takes his place flanking the brazier. So much for getting close enough to pick his pocket. A stone counter rings the fire. On it sits the huge goblet from the mage camp. Three crimson glass bottles form a line next to it. Kit is tall enough to glimpse three vials of blue-black blood gathered from Korcari Wilds darkspawn, now flat on the high table.

“This is the Joining. You will drink the blood of the darkspawn and master its taint.”

“We’re to drink the blood of those creatures?” Jory says, horrified.

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you,” Duncan confirms. “This is the source of our power.”

“Drink darkspawn blood? I’ve seen the men sick with Blight in the camp. It’s a death sentence. Why didn’t you warn me?” Jory demands, stepping into Duncan’s space. Duncan folds his arms, doesn’t move, and stares him down. “My wife carries my child.”

“Would you have come if you’d known?” says Daveth behind him. “We need you, Jory.”

He spins to Daveth. “My wife needs me, too,” he growls. “They’ve no right to sacrifice us.”

“And how will your pretty wife look when the Blight spreads and she’s tainted? If she survives the attack and the taint, she’ll be a ghoul.” Daveth shivers. “I’d sacrifice more than my humanity if I knew it could end the Blight.” Kit has watched Carta become ghouls, and she agrees with Daveth. But will the Joining make them ghouls? No, Alistair and Duncan are standing before them… they’d done this rite, and they’re normal humans.

Normal humans with the ability to detect darkspawn.

“From now on, you are Grey Wardens,” Duncan says, regaining their attention. “Alistair will say the words that have been said since the beginning.” Duncan turns to the goblet, blocking their view as Alistair clears his throat.

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

Alistair’s eyes settle on Kit for this last line like an apology. It does nothing to stop her from trying to figure out how to get his key. _Should you perish._

Duncan hands Daveth the goblet, now with a dark liquid inside. Kit notes one flask and one vial empty on the counter.

Daveth accepts the goblet, nods to Duncan, and drains it.

He starts, cocking his head to listen. “What? Who is that?” Kit hears nothing. She glances at Jory, who shakes his head, then at Duncan and Alistair, who watch Daveth intently. Daveth gives a wordless shout.

He’s pressing his hand to his face, fingertips on his forehead. Black mold creeps under his skin, following veins. Black bruises spread from those lines. In the corner of Kit’s eye, Alistair turns away, but Kit can’t stop watching the blue-black fluid grow under his skin.

Daveth twitches as through he’s throwing up, but nothing emerges. He looks up, directly at Kit, but he doesn’t see her. He looks like he’s transcending from horror into beauty.

“Ah, ah-nuh, ah-nuh,” he chants open-mouthed, louder and louder. Then he sings a scream torn from him. His flesh desiccates along the black lines and bruises, the darkspawn fungus sucking him dry. Grey-and-pink foam emerges from his mouth. _He’s dying._ Kit backs up a step.

He twitches again, hard enough this time he loses his balance and falls to his hands and knees. His arms collapse under him as he cries out, burbling black fluid, and sprawls across the terrace floor.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan says, closing Daveth’s eyes. Then he pours another flask and vial of darkspawn blood into the goblet. Alistair rolls the body to its back and crosses his arms over his chest. Kit should seize her chance, but her feet are leaden. _I would sacrifice more…_

“Jory,” Duncan intones, turning toward the swordsman.

Jory is pressed against the glass into the suite, staring at the body. “Daveth said you need me.” The sunlight sparkles on the broken glass in the room behind him. “No, this is not fair. It’s not _right_.” He gestures toward Daveth’s body, which Alistair is covering in a corpse-burning sheet. Kit can’t see how many sheets Alistair has, but she suspects it’s three. “There is no glory in this!” Jory spits.

Duncan offers the goblet from where he stands. “This is the only way.”

“No. No, I will not have it! I will not die like _that_.” He draws his sword.

He cannot take Duncan and Alistair, not alone. Kit sets hands on her weapons. Perhaps together… Alistair notices the gesture, but it’s a look of pity, not fear. Duncan draws his dagger, leaving his sword in its sheath, focusing on Jory. Jory’s face sets into battle lines, betrayal writ large. Kit resolves to jump Alistair while he’s distracted by the fight between Jory and Duncan.

She never gets the chance. Duncan batts the sword aside, pins him, and guts him at the weak spot in his armor.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“At least… I was never…” Blood chokes Jory’s words, spilling out of his mouth as he coughs. Duncan lowers him gently to the ground, face in mourning for the man he’d just gutted with no more effort than if Jory were a fish.

_What the fuck is happening?_

Half her friends on the Surface have been poisoned or killed by the others, but Kit hasn’t figured out how to jump from the terrace and live. She might get lucky against Alistair, but Duncan… she’s no match for him. She considers the way Jory died, the way Daveth died.

“You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good,” Duncan says by way of reassurance. He lifts the goblet again. Jory’s dose is still in it, black and viscous.

Her mind races. _The greater good._ There was no good from Daveth’s death, or from Jory’s. Both Duncan and Alistair have drunk this Joining, and survived. The Joining only helps if she has a _chance_ of surviving. And if she survives, she can get everything she wants. Hasn’t she faced death every day since she joined the Carta for a fraction of that?

She puts on a good show.

Kit steps forward and accepts the goblet without shaking. She drinks the concoction.

It tastes better than expected: fruit and molasses. Apples, again. Once the first gulp is down the rest follows easily. She hands the goblet back. For a moment nothing happens.

Then a whispering growl fills her mind, from every direction at once. She presses the side of her thumb into her forehead, keeping her balance as she sways. She can almost understand its meaning. _Violence and greed. Consuming, filling… something vast._ Her ears hum, and the voice continues. A heavy fuzz oozes through her body. It’s strange but beautiful. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to watch her own body become a corpse.

Behind her eyelids, a gorgeous human in a fine purple suit roars. His eyes are white, and his expression is exactly like Daveth’s before he died: rapturous. Focused on those eyes, she almost misses when he morphs into a dragon. He’s huge and beautiful, and he screams a song that pulls Kit closer, boots skidding across a spongy surface, and she sits up.

She runs into Alistair’s hand holding a small mirror by her face. _Was checking for breath._ She’s on her cot back at the Grey Warden camp. He puts away the mirror with aplomb.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” _Alive._ “Duncan said you’d be fine.” _But didn’t believe him._ “How are you feeling?”

Kit ignores the strange song stuck in her head and checks on her body. The flavor of the Joining coats her tongue.

“Can get some water?” she rasps. _Have been screaming?_

Alistair nods and hands her a cup from a bedside table. She sips it, feeling the new heavy fuzz sliding along her movements.

“Daveth and Jory?” she asks, but she smells smoke.

“Their pyres are burning. Sorry we missed it, but we were at their true funeral,” Alistair says.

“Was your Joining as bad as that?” Kit tries to forget the man in the purple suit, the song. Both are stuck in her head. She concentrates on the conversation. Jory, Daveth, gone.

“Yes. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was… horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

Kit nods, looking away. Is losing Daveth and Jory worth this… whatever this new power is?

“Am tainted now,” Kit says.

Alistair nods. “Yes. We all are.”

“Is there a cure? Nanites?”

Alistair laughs. “No. If it were that simple, we could end the Blight tomorrow.”

“Suppose,” Kit agrees, swinging from under her blankets and putting her feet down. She jerks them off the cold concrete and reaches for her socks and boots. “What now, Alistair?”

“Duncan says we need to leave with Morrigan before the fighting starts so we don’t get caught up in it. These treaties Flemeth found, ah, that’s Morrigan’s mother… the Circle, Orzammar, and the Dalish. We will need those allies when we uncover the Archdemon.” He gestures toward the camp, the other Grey Wardens outside her tent.

“One more thing,” he continues. “The Joining and its results are secrets forever, and our mission is a secret for now. Duncan senses something’s not right about this battle, but he won’t tell me more.”

Kit nods and stands, ignoring the disquiet rush of sibilant strength in her muscles. “Let’s get moving then.”

###

On their way out, Kit pauses at the rail. There’s a pulse in the valley of Ostagar, like a choir singing too low to hear.

“What the--?”

“That’s the darkspawn horde you’re sensing.”

“Are so many!” Kit objects. She wonders what it would be like to be closer. Could she hear better? Touch the soft taint scampering between buildings?

Alistair shakes his head. “King Cailan and Loghain have made a good plan. They’ll deal with one house at a time, systematically down all of the streets. Loghain will reserve the best troops in case Duncan is right and they emerge into sunlight en masse. King Cailan’s troops will fire flares and Loghain can join with fresh troops and supplies.”

“Reserve the best? Doesn’t seem…” Kit glances at the seething horde she can feel but not see. “…wise.”

Alistair chuckles. “The best of the King’s forces. The Grey Wardens will all be with the King, to warn them of attack.”

Kit sighs. “Suppose am just a grunt. Damn. Work my way up.” She stretches, shoulders popping. “Ah, well, at least promised plenty of food. Let’s stock up and go, solrocka.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with the story! That little jump in hits after I post tells me that though readers are few (so far?!?) you’re excited about Kit. I appreciate it. If you want to fill the time between chapters, you can comment below, share this fic with friends, or come to Tumblr to scream with me about cyberpunk dystopias! 
> 
> Two more chapters of Dust and Neon, and then White Marble starts with Zevran! 
> 
> Heaps of love on my betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! Their help and support is invaluable! If you spot a mistake or problem, that’s on me.
> 
>  
> 
> Note Wednesday 4/18/18: While writing my second book, I’ve figured out what this work is missing. So. I’m working with Rosehip plus input from MadamSnark to improve things. (I <3 my betas!!!) I’m hoping to get the next chapter up sometime Friday, instead of Thursday as I’ve been doing. It might be some time during the weekend, though? Sorry for the delay, but the next couple of chapters will be much better because of it. I promise.


	10. Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair, Kit, and Morrigan find bad news at the Dane’s Refuge in Lothering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that ten ‘onnies’ are worth one ‘blue’. Ten ‘blues’ are worth one ‘summer’. These coins are onyx, blue vitriol, and summer stone, respectively. 
> 
> I love all the Warden’s companions, but the story was busy enough with two (soon to be four), so I left Leliana, Sten, and Dog behind for now. There’s just… sooo much more angst if Kit doesn’t have Dog to comfort her.

Kit and Alistair meet Morrigan at the crossroads, and they walk to a little town as different from Ostagar as possible: small, transient, filthy, fragile, and vibrantly alive. This is Lothering, where the Chantry is the biggest building, the tavern is in the best condition, and hard times hit hard. There’s a field sitting fallow, filled with neat rows of rusting cars. An old man with a cart labeled “land rover” and pulled by donkeys. Everything runs on coal and wood, with a few gas engines as exceptions, perhaps shared around the town when a project needs extra oomph.

The people are survivors. On the way in, a few villagers are adding a lookout post on top of a brick-walled repair shop. Others tack together makeshift weapons from the scrap metal they have available: sharpening signs and driving nails through boards and wood bats. More mousey types stock up on supplies from the three remaining merchants.

Between the buildings, on the edges of town, anywhere there’s enough space, refugees running from the overflowing violence at Blighted Ostagar have set up tents or just tarps propped up by sticks.

Even the so-called ‘permanent’ buildings don’t seem sturdy to Kit’s eye. Every building is small and a different color. The shops are mixed in with the residences, every floor a few steps above ground level. Buildings are painted wooden boards or sheets of metal, bright plastic, and even glass on the nicer ones. Except the wood, villagers scavenged materials from ancient buildings.

Kit recognizes sliding doors like those on the Joining terrace in Ostagar, but set sideways in a wood wall. Inside, they glimpse a couple or perhaps siblings sitting and talking, shucking beans into buckets by hand.

Kit shakes her head. _Surfacers. Glass is for shops, to show off your wares or skills. Unless bean-shucking is a prized skill here._

“I’d like to visit the Chantry later,” Alistair says, gesturing toward the one properly scaled building. It’s an odd shape, though: a single peaked roof, made of wood, and only one floor, for all the building’s height. The Chantry’s corrugated-metal roof has streaks of rust and remnants of gold paint. The higher crimson and gold windows of the Chantry make a sunburst design traced with spider-web cracks and cut off on the lower level by new clear glass. Upraised hands sprout from the clear glass.

Kit grunts in response.

“What is that?” Morrigan asks, nodding in another direction.

At a corner down the road there’s a series of metal cages. Narrow. Tall. Cages. Plastic coatings in bright red, yellow, and blue cover their sharp edges. One has the biggest man Kit has seen yet, dressed in plain clothes that stretch over his massive frame. He has grey skin.

“That’s a Qunari,” Alistair says, dropping his voice as if he could hear from this distance.

“Yes, ’tis a Qunari,” Morrigan scoffs. “What is he _in_?”

“He must’ve done something awful. They don’t put just anyone in the cages.”

“That proud and powerful creature should not be made prey for the darkspawn,” she snaps.

Alistair shrugs. “Not an issue when they’re done at Ostagar.”

“There’s doubt among the folk here.”

Alistair gives a sour look. “Lothering has learned to prepare for anything.”

“Morrigan, we’ll look for solutions once have gotten news.”

“Careful. I may hold you to that.”

“Definitely. Am not refusing. Let’s get our bearings.”

Morrigan nods, mollified. “Agreed,” she says and follows Kit to the tavern with its new coat of blue paint.

Kit pauses in the doorway to the Dane’s Refuge, startled by the smell of fresh coffee over stale Surfacer beer. The thin walls make it seem bigger on the inside. According to the sign above the menu, the Dane’s Refuge FadeNet café _and_ tavern offers caffeinated drinks, food, and alcohol. The menu is a framed slab of black slate with stark white runes chalked onto it, spelling out ‘mochaccino = b3.5’ and ‘latte = b3’. From what Kit has gathered, Surfacers drink caffeine during the day and alcohol at night. Are holidays when daytime drinking’s accepted, but that’s the gist. Kit doesn’t understand why Surfacers don’t have a drink whenever they want, but should start a list.

The cappuccino machine clatters and whooshes, startling her through the door as Morrigan and Alistair crowd behind. The light doesn’t behave right. At home, the red, blue, and green neon lights fall flat onto rough stone. Kit had always loved the chisel-marks from ancient history. Here, polished wood shines everywhere: the walls, the floors, the ceiling, the tables, and even the chairs, the bar. _Not progressed as far as the nug-humping FadeScreens, and is already weird._ Kit climbs a stool built by sparkle-toed humans to give her order to the barista.

“We don’t want trouble here, Carta,” the barista grumps.

Kit bristles. “Former Carta. Am a Grey Warden and not looking for trouble.”

Relaxes, nods. “I have no qualm with you. My grandfather served. What can I get you?”

Kit wants to ask if qualm means the same thing on the Surface as in Orzammar, but skips it. “Still thinking,” says instead. Has never had coffee.

Alistair orders chai, and Morrigan orders mocha. Kit tries the mocha. Hasn’t trusted Alistair’s taste since he pulled a plant out of the ground, brushed off the dirt, and chewed the root, using the green part as a handle. Plus Alistair could have gotten her killed with her last beverage. She understands, but still.

“Fast cash!” in LED lights glares across a marquis as they wait for their drinks. High-class red neon is strange in unofficial use.

“Does anybody fall for that?” Kit asks, nodding to it.

“What?” Alistair had been glancing about the place, but he endearingly checks the screen, because she asked.  “Oh, the Chantry board? That’s legitimate business. They have three categories: Fast Cash, Steady Cash, and Charitable Works.”

“The _Chantry_ runs that?” Kit glares through the dim café at the too-bright words: _Fast Cash:_ _3 Good Works_. Then the screen mixes _fastcashgoodworks_ with nonsense punctuation and runes. “What does the next part mean?”

“It’s the Fade address. That one has a secure connection, insomuch as you can have one of those in the Fade.”

“I have a secure connection in the Fade,” Morrigan says.

“That’s all in your head,” he quips. “This café posts the ad feed and probably has a link on its Start page because it wants to attract the right clientele.”

Morrigan huffs. “Mercenaries and brigands are good for business?”

“Only mercenaries and brigands seeking honest work, love,” a new voice purrs. 

Morrigan bristles at the stranger’s tone. Kit touches her weapon handles. The stranger circles around Alistair to face Morrigan. 

“The Sisters write using the Chant,” he continues. “Understanding the posts reflects education.” The words are friendly, but he edges closer to Morrigan, excluding Alistair.

“The system favors templars.” Morrigan’s voice drips with disdain.

“Not just templars, love.” The mercenary says. He’s got three friends who chuckle and leer a step or two away. They ignore Kit. “Anyone Chantry educated can pick the best jobs”—he snaps his fingers—“easy.”

“I suppose you want to be my interpreter?”

“So you are Chasind!” The man laughs, sliding into her space. “Hot.” One second, he’s moving his hand between their bodies. The next, he’s on his knees, howling, the offending hand bent too far back in Morrigan’s grip. Kit pulls steel, turning toward the friends. They chuckle and leer down at her until they see her smile.

“Kit,” Alistair says, “what are you doing?”

“What the fuck, Alistair!” Kit exclaims.

“You’re threatening them because their friend talked to Morrigan!”

“He groped her, asshole!”

“What!” Alistair sputters. “I didn’t see that!”

“Read the room!” Kit jerks her head back at the man on his knees.

The barista appears again. “I wouldn’t pick a fight if I were you,” he calls to the friends. “Those are Grey Wardens.” Two of the three friends flinch. Kit smiles again.

“’Tis your cue to apologize,” Morrigan says.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man on the floor screeches, tears squeezing out of his eyes. “Won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” She releases him, and Kit puts away her weapons and glowers.

“You should move on,” Kit says. The friends collect their pervert and scramble out the door.

“Sorry about them,” the barista says. “Sometimes even a reputable Chantry education needs rounding out.” He holds out two bright ceramic mugs, each the size of the Joining cup and topped with whipped cream.

“No problem, ser…?” Kit says, taking her mocha.

The barista snorts. “Ser nothing. Name’s Danal.” He hands Morrigan her drink, and she hums her appreciation.

“Thank you, Danal,” Kit says.

“You see what a templar education gets you,” Morrigan hisses as Danal goes back for Alistair’s chai.

“Okay, one, those weren’t templars. Two, I never went through the initiation.”

“Yet all three groups are fools,” Morrigan says, flicking her fingers.

“I never hunted apostates,” he says. Accepts his chai and glances at Kit.

Instead of becoming a templar, Alistair went through the Grey Warden Joining, which could have killed him.

“Would you risk it again?” Kit mutters, remembering Daveth’s eyes at the end.

“Yes,” he confirms, leading them between rows of net screens, set up on the wood-and-glass counters threading through the café.

Morrigan snorts. “You’re saying you don’t want to kill apostates?” she asks.

“Just one,” Alistair says, “but I’ll suppress my desires for the greater good.” He sets his chai at a FadeScreen.

“Try it, fool,” Morrigan says, and Alistair yelps and jumps away from her.

“Was that _really_ necessary?” Alistair hisses, rubbing his leg and pulling out a chair. “I _hate_ getting shocked.”

“A mild response to a death threat.” Morrigan’s mouth twitches as she snags a nearby chair.

“Navigate, Sparky,” Kit says, jerking her chin at Alistair.

“As long as you don’t call me _that_ again.” Alistair doesn’t seem to notice her unease.

He settles into his chair. Morrigan shoots Kit a grateful look. Kit nods back. Morrigan must not use FadeScreens, secure connection or not.

They never expected a dwarven customer here. Kit’s legs dangle unless she scoots to the edge and points her toes to touch the rail around the bottom. Worth it to resist the temptation to swing them: too childish.

Alistair’s creamy chai smells amazing. She’ll try that next time. Morrigan sips her drink. Kit’s mocha tastes like sharp chocolate mellowed by the whipped cream, which ends up on her nose when the chair wobbles. She wipes it off. So much for dignified. She drinks it too quickly as she watches Alistair navigate.

The Start screen has pictures of more bizarre and colorful places. The world seems too big, but it’s at least as exciting as frightening.

“Right, I’ll just sign onto my social feed.” His movements – tapping the screen and the runes made of light in the low glass counter – are too quick to follow, but she figures out what the icons do. As he reads something, mumbling to himself, Kit realizes Morrigan is watching just as closely.

“Why not use your own tablet?” Morrigan grouses.

“I told you, I don’t have a tablet.”

“And I still don’t believe you. Everyone has tablets where there’s Fade access.”

Alistair grits his teeth. “Not everyone. What about you?” he says, donning a casual air. “Can’t nano pilots access the Fade any time, anywhere?”

Morrigan sighs. “Yes, but it won’t help if I don’t know where I’m going. I can’t access your social feed without your passkey, and I don’t have one of my own.”

“You, Morrigan, don’t make friends everywhere you go? I’m shocked!” He doesn’t seem shocked.

“That was earlier,” Kit mutters into her mocha.

“Neither do I invite everyone I meet to eviscerate me, rolling on my back with my paws in the air,” she replies. “The Fade is dangerous without an exact address. I have no wish to cast myself into the Fade and flag down demons to ask for directions.”

“I guess it’s a good thing there’s a FadeNet café then,” he says, smiling. He turns back to the large tablet and its keyboard. “Kinloch Hold Circle,” he mutters as he types, using all his fingers. Kit wonders if Duncan can arrange clerk training for her.

“Is _it_?” Kit asks as they wait for the search to come up.

“Is it… what?” Alistair asks, puzzled.

“Is that all you’re searching?” Kit clarifies.

Alistair shrugs. “We might as well go to the Circle first, since it’s closest.”  

“Have lots to visit, and have got this screen as long as nurse our drinks,” Kit says, guessing this place operates like Tapsters. “Search the other places, too.”

“Why? We know where we’re going.”

“Now know Andrastain monks coddled you. Dusters milk our resources for full value. Which reminds me, don’t skip the ‘fast money’ board, either.”

“How do resources relate to assets?” Alistair asks.

“One might get the other,” Kit says, smirking at Alistair. He huffs and smiles as he searches for Orzammar, the Dalish, the Blight, and Redcliffe, each in its own window.

They sip their drinks while the searches run. The whipped cream is essential to this beverage. She’s left with a skimpy froth with lots of brown bitter-chocolate stuff under it. ‘Search complete’ pops up.

“Okay, Circle first while the others finish,” Alistair mutters for their benefit. “Caaaa-rap. The nano pilots are causing trouble. If that’s not media hype, then the templars will control information.”

Morrigan looks perplexed. “What of the nano pilots? They’ve Fade access to bypass the templars.”

Shakes his head. “The templars must have isolated the Tower’s Fade. The mages keep their power but can’t coordinate with anyone outside. That explains why our searches are slow: they have a Server.”

“The jailors are controlling the information, and the word is the _nano pilots_ are causing trouble?” Morrigan huffs. “How naïve do they think we are?”

Kit smirks. “ _Someone_ knows how spin works.”

“I’ve seen ‘reputable news reports’ about the Chasind, so yes. I know how spin works.”

“Are Chasind?” Kit asks.

“My mother isn’t, and I never knew my father, so no. I know Chasind people, and specials in the Fade take a few differences and magnify them. These differences don’t change that they are thinking people like you and me.”

“Thinking? Not-not loving?” Alistair stutters.

Kit scoffs. “You might love.”

“Really?” he counters. “There’s no one you’d run to Orzammar to protect if they’re in trouble?”

Kit hesitates. _Are on my side, aren’t they?_

“Have a sister and a friend.” Kit shrugs. “And my mother.” She feels guilty about adding Kalah as an afterthought until Morrigan laughs.

“Yes, I understand about mothers,” is all she says.

“I suppose you do,” Kit says. “Any more Circle news, Alistair?”

“Maker, it’s serious. We might catch a bus to get there faster. They may close it off soon.”

“We could wait until the templars have taken care of this problem,” Morrigan suggests.

“Yes!” Kit says. “Let’s go to Orzammar first.”

“I understand wanting to return home, but there might not be mages left,” Alistair says grimly. “The templars can request the Right of Annulment from the Chantry and kill everyone in the Circle.”

Kit gapes. She’s built a reputation on ruthlessness, but… “Kill everyone? Who does that?” Kit looks from Alistair’s embarrassed face to Morrigan’s smug one. “Cut my beard and call me a crusted bronto turd,” Kit swears under her breath.

Alistair turns pink, which Morrigan smiles at.

“Fine,” Kit says, swallowing too much mocha. “Let’s check the other searches, earn cash, and rescue that Qunari before go.”

Alistair checks Orzammar next. “Huh. ‘Closed off for mysterious reasons.’ Kit, any guesses?”

“None. Rely on the Surface for trade. Can’t stay sealed long. Will work out before nobles run out of pastry flour and wood.” She waves a hand. “Considering the Right of Annulment, Orzammar can wait.”

“Fair enough,” Alistair says. “Hmm, no recent news on the Dalish.” He shrugs. “Better than ‘they’re raiding, time to send soldiers to exterminate them.’” Alistair closes the window.

A headline blares across the new frame: “Redcliffe’s Arl Won’t Join the Battle of Ostagar.”

“I wonder what’s keeping him,” Alistair says.

“Someone you know?” Kit asks, finishing her drink. She feels _great._ Maybe is the goal to rescue the nano pilots.

“Oh! I, uh, grew up in Redcliffe, before going to Bournshire. Stable hand.”

“So no,” Morrigan says, “you don’t.”

“No, I suppose not,” Alistair mutters before closing that window. Then he scans a few walls of text before reporting, “Word is darkspawn are squirrelly. Lock up your cattle.”

Morrigan snorts into her mocha and covers by blowing on the whipped cream.

Next is the Chantry Board listing with three jobs: a farmer paying to kill wolves so he can move his cattle, someone with a leaky pipe, and an iffy situation with a child’s lost mother. Kit spins her empty cup, bouncing one leg. The last one reads like the Chantry sister is trying not to say his mother died when bandits attacked. With little discussion, they claim the wolves and the mother, leaving the leaky pipe for someone with the right skills. They can earn about a dozen summers before moving on.

Alistair closes that window, leaving only a gossip page. The main story is about an executive in a mustard yellow suit that is impossibly tasteful.

“Paragons’ collective hairy asses, who is that?” Kit blurts. A dozen other questions crowd behind her clenched teeth.

“What, Urthemiel?” Alistair says.

Morrigan peers over his shoulder, too. “He is easy to look at.”

“That’s an old picture,” Alistair snaps.

Kit says, “Alistair, tell me you recognize him.” She thinks she might have lost her mind.

“Course I do. He’d be hard to miss, Urthemiel’s a media darling. His latest stunt is avoiding cameras.” Alistair grins.

“This is insane! I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, you lived in Orzammar. You don’t get FadeNet there, do you?” Alistair’s tone is mystified, curious, and does nothing to calm Kit.

“Alistair, during my Joining, saw him” – she points at the screen – “turn into a darkspawn, then a dragon. Was this whispering I couldn’t understand. Thought it was a reaction to…” Kit glances at Morrigan, who folds her arms and purses her lips, “but exists! How was in my Joining vision when never saw him?”

“Maybe Urthemiel created a link to the darkspawn? We can ask Duncan when we get back.”

The screens in the café flicker, but Kit’s distracted because Urthemiel is _real._ How is that _possible?_ A moment later, the room gets quiet, and Kit feels the patrons turn to them. _Danger._ Looks up slowly at the faces around them: angry and scared. Then further up, at the flickering screens.

Is a vid of Kit and Alistair, taken from above. The drone they discussed when they first met must’ve taken video. Kit watches in fascination as her image plays with her lighter and Alistair talks with the drone-using reporter, who looks upset when you can’t hear her tone of voice. The runes scrolling along the top read, “Wanted for War Crimes.” The video shifts to King Cailan landing hard against a wall in lower Ostagar. “Ferelden King Dead.” Next, a shot of Duncan, sword and dagger out, snarling at the camera and running past it. “Grey Wardens Betray Ferelden.” Then back to Kit and Alistair, replaying the idyllic scene of two soldiers upsetting a reporter. “Wanted for War Crimes.”

“What the _fuck_?” Kit says. Everyone stands. Those with angry faces and scars let their hands hover over their weapons. They’re eyeing each other as much as the Wardens, perhaps negotiating percentages of the inevitable bounty with glances and sneers. The scared, harmless Lotherites plaster against the walls and slip out the door.

Alistair and Morrigan stand a half-beat later. Their FadeScreen is in the middle of the room. Mercenaries stare them down from every direction.

_Damn, slipping._ Covered her exits in Orzammar, but here? Left it to Alistair. _Paragons banish you, Alistair._

Kit stands on her seat a beat after Alistair and Morrigan, hands hovering over her weapon handles. Kit’s head is the highest.

“The King and the Grey Wardens were fighting _darkspawn_ at Ostagar,” Kit says, eyeing the surrounding mercenaries. “Why betray him to those ass hats?”

“Grey Wardens are Orlesian, aren’t you?” A mercenary spits. The glossy brown fluid matches the floor.

Kit snorts. “Not us. Think about this. Why boast we’re Grey Wardens if our coworkers planned to betray King Cailan?” _Stone take me. That knee-jerk disgust for nobles will get us killed. Possibly today._

“Cailan was our _King_ ,” Alistair says in more reverent tones. He gestures as the videos repeat. “Duncan—Warden-Commander Duncan—was his _friend_. We would _never_ betray him.”

Everyone relaxes, glancing around doubtfully. Kit takes in a breath, but before can release it the screen changes with a new clip.

“Regent Loghain Offers s.20,000 Reward” reads the new headline. Loghain scowls, not punchable enough through the screen in Kit’s opinion. _Are so fucked._

There’s a cluster of mercenaries situated down this row between Kit’s crew and the door. The closest in that group scoffs and smirks. She glances at the rest of her cluster, tilts her head at the handsome bounty on screen, and draws a sword and hand gun. Her cluster follows her lead with a variety of weapons, grinning back. The other mercenaries flatten against the walls, knocking over chairs.

_At least it wasn’t everyone._ Kit eyes that gun and growls, “You don’t want this fight. Isn’t worth it.”

“Six on three is _well_ worth that much summer,” the leader counters.

Kit draws her dagger and pick and _smiles_.

“Seems unfair.” Alistair draws steel, stepping out to free his shield and Kit. “To you.” Kit slips to the floor behind him.

“Indeed,” purrs Morrigan. “You poor fools.” She freezes the leader with a gesture.

With the mercenaries gawking at Alistair and Morrigan, Kit slips behind the group, weirdly focused and excited. She stabs deep into an under-armored man hefting guns. He spins, lashing out, but only shoves Kit’s head. She slashes at his arm, but he’s collapsing, gasping wetly.

“Don’t kill them!” Alistair shouts. _Idiot_.

“Too late!” Kit responds to 1) keep the enemy fear up, 2) not give away this disadvantage, and 3) sort-of apologize for killing the gunner.

A dagger slashes through Kit’s leather jacket, gouging the shoulder armor under it. _Fuck, is a good coat._ Turns and ducks to her knees to stab his heels and drop him, but he keeps swinging. Stabbing wrists gets him to drop his dagger, but now is bleeding fast.

“Take your fucking honor to the Legion, Alistair!” Kit shouts, frustrated and angry. Why are they _dying_ so fast?

“We’re clear! Let’s go!” he shouts. Alistair and Morrigan are at the door.

“Go!” Kit shouts, dropping a healing poultice on the bleeding mercenary and scrambling. Run out the door, leaving Kit.

A hand slicks along the leather of her shoulder. _Dodge_. Doesn’t get a grip until it reaches wrist, wrapping around. A third mercenary is leaning to catch her.

_Fine_. Kit pulls her arm the way he’s leaning. Bigger than she’s used to, but turns to hook her other arm tight under his armpit so he’s flat against her back. She twists _just so_ , using his momentum and popping her hips up: a move their dad taught Rica and Rica taught her. His body follows his head, and he flips onto the floor. She lands him _hard,_ steps on his chest while he’s gasping, and sprints out of reach.

“There’s a fight!” Alistair shouts to flame-robed women as Kit emerges. “They might need medical attention.”

Kit is limping from a wound in her thigh. _When did that happen?_ Two robed women approach, and she growls, “Get off me! I’m fine! Some of them are _dying_.”

Gets her stern looks, but head for the café or tavern or what-fucking-ever.

“There’s a plane on the edge of town,” Morrigan says as duck into the most crowded part of Lothering. “Perhaps the pilot shall be cooperative.”

Crouch behind a tent as rattling, armed people pass it. Kit shifts and winces.

“What happened to your leg?” Morrigan hisses as their hunters retreat.

Kit shrugs. “Asshole with a blade.”

Morrigan closes the wound with nano. Kit grits her teeth to keep from screaming with how much it itches. They continue down the warren of tents and shacks.

“I think we’re”—turn a corner to more twisting alleyways. “Great,” Alistair huffs, casting about, “which way out?”

Kit glances up. Has memorized Orzammar’s misshapen ceiling, but the sky is perfectly round. Another clatter of armor drives them left.

“Fuck. Need that plane before they find us.”

They turn a corner and discover a red-headed woman in flame-colored robes picking the Qunari’s lock. _Must_ ’ve heard Kit.

For a moment, no one moves.

“I believe you have a plane to catch,” says the redhead, pointing down an alley curving between the tents.

Kit nods. “Thanks,” she says.

Alistair dallies. “Thank you, Sister…?”

“No names, Warden.” The sister steps away from the cage, tucking her lock picks into her robes. “And please. _Don’t mention it._ ”

“You’ll release him?” Morrigan asks.

“In a moment,” the redhead replies, smiling serenely.

There’s an angry shout behind them. “Check over there!” Kit and her crew scurry down the alley.

“They went that way,” the sister says.

“Shit!” Kit hisses, sprinting, but the boots clank away from them.

The shabby buildings and tents part at the end of the alley. There’s an expanse of field, edged in brush, between them and a colorful airplane.

“Take this,” Morrigan hisses, shoving plain brown trench coats at Kit and Alistair.

“Where did you find these?” Alistair demands.

“Leave them at the plane if it bothers you,” Morrigan says, donning hers and striding across the field.

“Fine.” His coat is small; Kit’s is too long, but close enough.

“Morrigan’s fits perfectly,” Alistair grouses.

“Whatever.” Kit plays it cool as best she can, even as the alarm rises and falls behind them. Is enough. Reach the plane without trouble.

Unfortunately, trouble is already there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it’s worth the delay. I’ve been posting love letters to Dragon Age and cyberpunk dystopias. Now I’m telling a story. 
> 
> If you’re into Zevran/Brosca longfics, I can recommend Child of the Stone by Smutnug. River Brosca is sweet and vulnerable, yet tough enough to survive Thedas. Zevran figures out what to do with his feelings eventually. 
> 
> Loads of love on my badass betas, Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3! They helped with problem creation this chapter. However! If you have problems with this work, talk to me, not them.


	11. Hitting Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit’s crew escapes Lothering and faces a crisis of leadership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight time-rewind in the storytelling, but no actual time travel. ;)

The road is long, smooth, and straight coming out of Lothering. It’s perfect for Bessy. Among the intricate paintings on her side is the symbol for trade. Bodahn sets the plane down, and people swarm when he pulls her into a fallow field. They ask for canvas, portable food and fire, guns, fuel, or car parts.

He has most of it. Bodahn stocked up in Denerim, and now he sells it off for cash and metal. Metal is easy to sell for lighter valuables, and if they bring it to the plane, they’ve done half the work. Someone trades an old busted stovetop oven from the house her family is abandoning for everything they’ll need for a while: food for several people for a week, tent, and chlorine for treating bad water. Not that chlorine kills Blight, but it will kill normal disease, which doesn’t stop being a concern. He throws in a packet of gooseberry hard candies for her kids. Bodahn can make a tidy profit off the stove, even with the massive pile of canvas he trades to her.

“I know,” she says when he tells her. “But it gets my family what we need, and at least that broken-down stove goes to good use. I’m not leaving it for those darkspawn.”

Other people trade coin, small pots and pans, old cans, and broken or rusted car parts until the town entrepreneur tows an entire car hitched to their working pickup truck. Bodahn trades his remaining stock for the dead car. It’s more than one family can use, but they’ll take it to town and sell it on demand when Bodahn and his boy Sandal are in the wind. The man loads up his pickup while Bodahn checks that the car has all of its metal. Everyone leaves, following the pickup, and Bodahn and Sandal tear out the seats, upholstery, and plastic and dump it in the ditch. Sandal knows well enough not to enchant things when other people are around, but Bodahn likes to keep him out of sight anyway while he trades. Farmers are especially twitchy about nano. Bodahn keeps the tires, and they shove it up the ramp onto the plane, assisted by Bessy’s old winch hooked onto the car’s front bumper.

When he met his plane, she had the color and bearing of a short-neck goose. He could never change Bessy’s ungainly round belly, but he gives her better plumage whenever he finds the paint. This world can always use more beauty. He gives every artistic addition a special clearcoat so the paint doesn’t slow Bessy’s takeoff. He’d started on the underbelly, with swirls of red and pink and yellow, and added the most fantastic colors he could find: orange and green Surfacer birds and animals, multi-colored Dalish pictographs, people they’d met in pink and purple, and fantastic blue cities inspired by the ruins they’d combed.

They’re not merchants at heart, despite blood and the sign on the side of the plane. Bodahn has an eye for quality but no head for which markets need what, with obvious exceptions like this one. He knows what it takes to run when you’ve got nothing, but disasters like this are… well, this is the first they’ve been able to help with. That’s right, this is a service to the community, and Bodahn and his boy should get paid for that service. They should.

Normally, they scratch out a living scouring farmyards near ruins. Bodahn’s no lockpick, so he checks for antiquities and trades when someone doesn’t know what they have. He also goes into old ruins that are less dangerous than their reputations. Well, usually less. He still doesn’t know how he and his boy survived when that ogre showed up when they were looking for Kal’Hirol. _Lucky cave-in_ , Bodahn reminds himself firmly.

Bodahn’s smoking elfroot, feet propped up, watching the peace flags flutter in the first hints of sunset while Sandal digs around in his bunk for a new rune he wants to show Bodahn, when he hears a… scratching, guess you could say. Could be the cargo hold’s rat, but Bodahn thought she’d turned in for the night. Could be darkspawn this close to the horde, but he knows that sound and it’s not even close. Bodahn stands and stretches, then stabs the tires of the car, casual-like, locking it into place on the plane.

A big human in a motorcycle helmet steps into the cool late-afternoon sun. His gun is out, but away from Bodahn, almost friendly.

“Hey, friend,” the man says, “it looks like you had a good day.”

“Can’t complain,” Bodahn says lightly, putting his knife away. No point in misunderstandings with a gunner.

“You don’t mind sharing, do you?” That’s when his friends appear, shadows looming behind him but sun glinting off blades, a chain, and nails through a bat. “We’ll want your portable metal and the cash.”

“We don’t have much, but I’m sure I can scrape a good meal together,” Bodahn says.

“You’re a dwarf, aren’t you? Dwarves are rich. We need metal and coin, nothing else.” Their helmet faceplates are dark. If he can keep them talking through sunset, they won’t be able to see. He didn’t hear motorcycles. Did they walk?

Bodahn smiles wistfully. “They value food more than metals in Orzammar. But supply and demand, so I’m told.”

The bandit says something Bodahn would rather not repeat in mixed company, ending with, “…and cut your balls off.”

“Violence is not the answer. I’m sure we can work this out with open hearts and minds. They say the mind is like a parachute, it doesn’t work unless it’s open.”

“I don’t need to fucking open my mind, but I’m willing to open your heart, old man.”

That’s when the Hero of Ferelden shows up.

“Looks like have unwanted guests,” she says. No one knows she’s the Hero yet, but it’s her just the same.

“These dudes were just leaving,” Bodahn replies optimistically.

“We’re not leaving,” the leader says, “without the metal.”

“Here,” Bodahn says, “take it.” He hands him an armful of pots and pans and shoos them toward the door, hiding the cash box with his body, hoping Sandal stays hidden. “Here you go, have a nice day.”

“Is that a full-lane car?” the Hero says. She walks right by the lead thug, tipping a pot out of his hands, and he drops three trying to catch that one.

“Hey!” he says.

“Yes!” Bodahn’s trying to get them out of the plane without a fight, so he says, “Yes! I traded that car just this afternoon.”

But it’s no use. The guy who dropped the pans is taking it personal, yelling at the Warden and drawing his gun again. She draws a dagger and a small pickaxe. The guy laughs, but Bodahn’s seen Carta and knows what she is. Or, was. She’s a Warden now. Anyway, that pick is for skulls. Bodahn doesn’t need skull pieces all over his nice ride, you know?

“No fights in here, you’ll ruin the vibes!” he says. And the curtains, the peace flags, and the rugs. Possibly the indoor teal paint job. That really brightened up the place. But it’s faster to say vibes. The little things add up to blood and brains all over Bodahn’s good vibes.

The big blonde down the ramp yells something rude about their parentage, and the Warden plucks the gun from the guy’s fingers when he gets angry. Bodahn would learn the blonde’s name is Alistair, and later he becomes king, but you know what? Let’s not tell this story out of order. So he’s just some big human brute yelling at the bottom of the ramp. That gets them out of the plane, and Bodahn is tempted to close up, but he can’t stop watching the fight. The Hero—just Warden Kit back then—only has two in her crew so far: Alistair and Morrigan. When Alistair gets thugs’ attention, they’re too angry to even look at Kit slicing chunks out of them. She’s a butcher with a nug roast, slicing portions. One runs off. That witch (wonder what happened to her?) is muttering a wish for a lightning spell, just one, but she casts this freezing nano and frozen meat doesn’t slice it _shatters_ when the Hero of Ferelden chops it. Yeah, that’s about what Bodahn’s face looked like, too. Anyway, when he’s done retching off the back of his plane, he tramps down the ramp to thank them. He gives her a table knife or something, but she put it in her boot. No, not a butter knife. A table knife. Steak knife? Yeah. It’s plenty sharp, but not strong enough for regular use. She likes being armed and who can blame her? Well, she asks for a ride to the Circle, service for a service, and he figures that’s fair. She offers to travel with them, and Bodahn, not wanting to be predictable, declines.  

What? Of course it was a stupid move. Fortunately for Bodahn, he and Alistair traded contact info, so Bodahn found them after they cleaned up that mess in the Circle tower. That’s when he learned the only thing better than picking in farmyards near ruins is picking after the Hero of Ferelden. No ogres to contend with after she’s done with a place. Oh, she takes the best stuff, but Bodahn can find and sell enough mid-level stuff to buy anything she didn’t need.

But that’s putting the story out of order again. After they part ways, Bodahn flies Bessy to Redcliffe to sell the metal, and Warden Kit continues to the Circle tower.

###

The pilot stands at the top of the ramp, above Kit like that platform at the Proving Race, and triggers a flashback filled with Duncan: claiming her for the Grey Wardens, watching her on the ice, asleep on the train, describing Ostagar, his weird regret over Daveth and Jory, and his worry as handed her the Joining. Was her upgrade, the Big Boss – the retired boss, after little more than a week. And fuck if she would answer to the Archdemon, whether or not they follow Carta rules on the Surface.

Then fades for the moment. Attends business, trades a service for a service. Barely has to smile.

###

“It’s a trick, it’s a trap to make us do something foolish,” Alistair says, pacing in the cramped plane and shouting over its rumble. “But who? We need the rest of that footage! We must prove Duncan’s innocence!”

“The King hitting the wall is convincing,” Kit says, grabbing a rib of the plane as it banks. She’s been such a rock; Alistair has half-wondered if she would stick to the floor like one of those bobble-head celebrity toys.

“It’s possible to fake video footage,” Alistair says desperately.

“’Tis possible,” Morrigan says. How does her purr carry over the plane’s noise? Must be nano. “If you find a video uploaded to the Fade, I could check for alterations. Where is the nearest FadeNet hub?”

“The Spoiled Princess is another café,” Bodahn calls from the cockpit.

“Yes. It’s a lie,” Alistair says, trying to convince himself.

Alistair can’t say, _Maker, what if it’s true?_ but his brain keeps looping it, never answering the question but never moving beyond it. They wait in grim silence for Bodahn to land in a field near Kinloch Hold, where the local Circle is housed.

As the plane takes off, Alistair hums softly, remembering. “You never met”—

Kit spins to Alistair, surprising him. “Never met _who_ , Alistair? Know dead Grey Wardens _will never meet._ What the hell happened? The plan was solid! We both sensed that horde. Was massive, but Loghain could have cut through if Cailan and Duncan needed back-up. All the Grey Wardens were with Duncan! Why didn’t they warn everyone?”

Alistair ignores Morrigan’s sneer. Kit’s right. Something went horribly wrong, and they need to learn what.

###

Morrigan feels like she needs a bath the moment they set foot in the Spoiled Princess. Low light and the stench of stale beer and coffee can’t hide the “tack, tack, tack” of their boots on the floor. The furniture and neon fixtures don’t match, one sign advertising a brand of beer that hasn’t been made in years. She ignores glowing blue ooze in fractal nano patterns on the wall. _Disgusting._

One of the low-lives populating the place lifts his head in interest, then anger. His friend tugs the edge of his hood.

“Don’t draw attention, dipshit,” she hisses.

They secure a FadeScreen without trouble. Still, t’would be best if they are quick.

Morrigan insists on using a news site with a solid demon-free reputation. To her surprise, Alistair just nods, types an address, and searches the site.

They find snippets of video. In one, the Ferelden King sprawls against a wall behind darkspawn feet, unmoving with blood leaking from his mouth. “King Cailan Betrayed.” In another, Warden-Commander Duncan is shouting angrily with the sound cut, waving a sword at Royal soldiers. “Grey Wardens Betray Ferelden.” There’s a clip of Loghain with a horrified look on his face. As the horror turns to grim determination, another headline pops up: “Loghain Accepts Regency.”

“This is enough. I need the source.”

Alistair hits a button to bring up the embedded source address, cited to three edits deep.

“I need somewhere to sit.” She glares at Alistair.

“You have only but to ask, my witch,” he jests, rising. Not a jest: a pale shadow of a jest he was trying to remember how to make. Always the fool.

Still glaring, she takes his seat and closes her eyes, posing as though she were watching the screen.

“What is she doing?” Kit mutters low.

“Looking at the Fade itself,” he responds. Someone leans against Morrigan to prop her up. “She can trace the video code and find the original feed. Most mages can tell if it was invented Fade-cloth.”

_Nano pilots, you ass,_ she thinks as she finds what she needs.

###

The drone flies over Ostagar with the battle progressing below, accepting external commands. Places cameras are not pointed only appear as smears of green light: a flow, a pattern, a rightness welcoming the drone’s contribution. Below the drone, soldiers are advancing, pulling darkspawn and thralls snarling and hissing into the light. They attack if they get the chance before they’re beheaded or shot. A few soldiers, the King, and all the Wardens cause effects when their blades hit: a frost coating, a burst of lingering flame, a brief crackle of lightning. Overkill. Slaughter is boring in this time frame, but drones don’t get bored. Drones follow commands. The angles of the drone and cameras get more interesting anyway because humans with attention spans are sending those commands.

The speed and flow of slaughter one-eighties. Darkspawn appear above and behind, blocking retreat. Darkspawn victims produce weapons. Troops are fish in the narrow streets, pierced by bullets and glass-tipped arrows from the rooves. Flame and lightning add interest each hit. The drone’s sensors tilt as it swoops for a better angle on the new darkspawn.

Morrigan finds the entire battle four times over from different drones and different angles. She can’t store everything, but she has the ability to make a good cinematic cut. She saves her final version to the chip in her head.

###

Kit worries when Morrigan has been out for half an hour. Alistair clicks around the internet, and Kit treats Morrigan like she’s napping.

A patron in templar armor gives them an odd look, and Kit shrugs saying, “Rough night.” He moves on.

It’s fascinating to see the differences in flavor between the news outlets. Each outlet uses signature angles and proportions of dramatic or artistically raw-looking shots, but the same story is everywhere. _Are wanted and alone._

Alistair abruptly stops looking for Ostagar news after about twenty minutes. Instead, finds a crack-pot article about half-dog men running around in the Brecilian Forest. They find rumors of undead in Redcliffe, and Alistair complains about the decline of reliable news sources.

Then Alistair searches ‘Grey Wardens’ and they find a piece about the accusation of coordinating with the darkspawn to defeat the Royal Ferelden Army. It ends with the bounty.

Alistair mutters, “It’s good to be wanted,” but his voice is too high.

Kit gives him an incredulous glance. “Is definitely not good, whatever finds.” They don’t speak again until Morrigan wakes up. Alistair finds videos of cute baby animals to fill the time.

“’Twas interesting,” she purrs and sips her cold chai. She’s not acting sleepy to keep her cover. “’Tis definitely a lie.” Kit’s too curious to care.

“They’re all right?” Alistair says, relieved.

“Oh, no, they are very much dead. Someone selected footage with care. Loghain is not as noble as painted, nor did Duncan collude.” She shrugs, gulps the last of her chai, and grimaces. “An ogre killed the King, but the Commander killed the ogre. Then their position was overrun.” Kit’s last spark of hope dies.

###

The video is Morrigan’s best editing work to date. The King’s men march down the street of the abandoned city, stopping at each house and pulling dozens of darkspawn into the midday streets to be killed. They wear varying levels of protection against the infected blood: specialized masks to large handkerchiefs. The Grey Wardens don’t bother: their famous immunity to the Taint.

Some drones stay high to get the overall view. Those viewpoints show overall progress, but lower drones, hovering near the darkspawns’ twisted and Blight-infected faces, their fully black eyeballs, make better cinema. The close-ups emphasize the darkspawns’ dead-colored skin with networks of grey- or purple-black veins.

Sometimes lower drones get too close. Soldiers shoo them away, but one drone is destroyed by a particularly vicious darkspawn swipe. Morrigan smirks at the jump that causes her companions.

The King and Grey Wardens direct the extermination squads from the streets: efficient, bloody, and necessary. The best Ferelden TV.

When squads have moved halfway into lower Ostagar, Duncan shouts, “Darkspawn from behind! Signal reinforcements!” and gestures with his sword toward the back of the group. Other Grey Wardens take up the cry, but darkspawn appear like magic from cleared buildings and in front, surrounding the soldiers.

“Darkspawn love scrabbling in the dark,” Kit intones. When Alistair pauses the vid feed, she continues, “Those claws are for digging. Tunneled behind.” Alistair stiffens, nods, and plays the feed again.

Several people shoot signal flares. Human hands holding flare guns are wrapped in darkspawn grips, and the signals land dully into the press of darkspawn against soldier.

Then one flies high and bright. She’d found an excellent shot of it that included the living King and Commander of the Grey. Loghain’s arranged response was to send the reserves, surround the ambushers. A drone near Loghain catches his expression as he runs to the fence at the edge of the ravine.

“Come _on_ , Loghain,” Alistair mutters. “They’re _counting_ on you.” As if he can change the outcome. Yes, she’d gotten the anticipation right.

Loghain sounds the retreat.

In the next close-up, the King confronts a hulking ogre with Qunari horns who picks the King up, squeezes until he falls limp, and throws his body against a building, knocking bricks loose. Alistair gasps, clutching his chest. Duncan dodges the falling body and charges the brute, slicing its tendons, escaping its clumsy grasp, and climbing it high enough to stab the ogre’s neck in a white-hot fury. A hurlock grabs his ankle, pulling him off the ogre when it falls dead. Duncan disappears in a roiling press of darkspawn flesh.

A wide shot. No Grey Wardens visible. The King’s forces are overwhelmed, leaderless, and scattered down the warrenous alleys.

The Wardens sit for a moment, faces blank. Morrigan’s rather proud of her work on this one. It tells the story succinctly, not an interview in sight. It will be useful in the days to come.

“How do you know this footage wasn’t faked? Perhaps they survived,” Alistair says, head bowed. He’s literally pulling his hair.

“It’s unlikely…” Morrigan says, puzzled.

“Unlikely, but possible?” Alistair pops up and grabs Morrigan by the shoulder. “Morrigan, I have to know if they…” His voice falters. Disgust wells up inside her.

She shakes him off. “Do not _touch_ me.”

Alistair raises his hands like they’ve been burned. _I hate him so much._ Kit interrupts before she can tell him exactly where his faults lay.

“Morrigan,” she says quietly. “Need to know.”

Morrigan takes a breath.

“Why make Loghain villainous in the hidden footage? If it were faked, they must hide the army killed in this video. No, the news outlet hid this footage to cover for Loghain at his command. The way to check is to return to Ostagar.”

“They’re dead,” Alistair says in a daze. “They’re all dead.”

###

Kit leaves the café rather than buy more caffeine. Alistair and Morrigan follow in her wake. Finds a patch of lakeside real estate where they talk. Well, the Grey Warden with _seniority_ collects small stones and throws them out onto the lake, listening to Kit and Morrigan talk.

“I don’t know what’s next,” Kit admits, hoping Alistair will chime in with suggestions. “In the Carta, when the Big Boss dies without a successor, lesser bosses either sign with the new Boss or go into business, using anything left.”

“Surely your goal has not changed. This Blight must be dealt with, quickly; else it will take over Ferelden and even Thedas.”

Kit scoffs. “Is really that dire? Have killed darkspawn for centuries. A single rush can’t be that bad.”

“In the Deep Roads the darkspawn shy away from light, and they aren’t coordinated as in that video. This is a Blight,” Morrigan stresses. “In Blights past, darkspawn would ruin entire countries before the Grey Wardens could defeat them, but you can end the Blight before it grows.”

“Could go home and protect Leske and Rica.”

Now Morrigan scoffs. “You think once the darkspawn have taken over the Surface Orzammar will survive? Where is your food grown?”

“Have nugs and lichen.” Kit’s defensive tone weakens her position, but can’t control it.

“Have you nothing from the Surface?”

Kit sighs. “We have flour and preserved food.” Kit remembers the high percentage of Surface food in the Orzammar market. “Fine, I’ll admit it: Orzammar needs the Surface. For now.”

“Your connections and resources from Duncan – the Big Boss, as you say – are the equipment you carry, me, and the treaties.” Morrigan doesn’t mention Alistair, but Kit can’t blame her. Is staring listlessly across the lake, not even throwing stones anymore.

“Need to leverage those treaties,” Kit says, “and then find and kill the Archdemon.”

“You could kill the Archdemon first,” Morrigan says. “You are Grey Wardens, are you not?”

Kit scoffs. “Wardens have defeated every Archdemon, but have had an army backing them each time. The army lost at Ostagar means collecting allies to replace them.”

Morrigan nods. “You’ve a point. Those treaties are the fulcrum for your leverage.” Morrigan flicks her hand toward the Circle tower partway across Lake Calenhad where Alistair is staring.

“Alistair, what do you think?” Kit calls, hopeful he’ll step up.

Alistair throws another rock far into the lake with a grunt and watches the splash. Tendrils of seaweed writhe in the waves.

“Don’t do this,” Kit says. “Can only take so much.”

Alistair’s eyes snap to Kit. “They’re dead. Grigol and Yasir and Murtagh with his stupid… You don’t care, Kit, but I left the Order for them, and now I don’t even…”

“I think we have more pressing matters,” Morrigan says.

“No, this is the biggie.” He sounds hysterical. Can’t be good. “This isn’t in terms you understand, you heartless witch? How about this? The strength of our army is gone.” Alistair is shouting. Is ready to defend Morrigan if he raises a hand, but he doesn’t. “We are two against a horde of darkspawn. There might be some Grey Wardens outside of Ferelden, but I have no idea how to contact them.”

“Your social”—

“That was from before my Joining. Wardens aren’t _on_ social media. I don’t have a Warden-secured FadeCell. If Loghain has re-criminalized the Wardens, they won’t set foot inside the borders until most of Ferelden is Blighted and Loghain or whoever he puts on the throne is dead.”

“Or runs to another country,” Morrigan says.

“I’d much prefer dead,” Alistair growls.

“Good,” Morrigan says, sneering in his face, “use that anger. Get your revenge.”

“I hate you,” Alistair says, but turns to Kit with the fury still burning. “I cannot make decisions right now. That’s unfair, but I’m better at following anyway.”

Being ready to fight him kicks in, but instead of hitting, she shouts. “Damn right isn’t fair. Have had to make life-and-death decisions since my mother was fired as a street cleaner and never hired again. What to buy so didn’t starve or get killed, who to trust, which Carta jobs to take. Every day could have left my sister and mother to starve.”

“After careful review of your resume, the job is yours,” Alistair says, smiling. Is fake. Has only hidden the pain and fury. “I’ve never been allowed to make decisions. Working in the stables? Becoming a templar? Neither was my choice. The only thing I’ve ever wanted and gotten was becoming a Grey Warden, and that only affected _me_. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You admit you’re toothless?” Morrigan says.

“Yes, thank you, now kindly fuck off,” Alistair says.

“Both can fuck off,” Kit says without echoing his smile and heads for the dock. Can follow at their leisure.

Time to claim the Big Boss’s assets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaps of love on Rosehip and MadamSnark on AO3 for betaing! They are wonderful and have helped improve this whole work. Any mistakes and problematic content are mine.

**Author's Note:**

> We can all be found on Tumblr: @starlanellfic, @october-rosehip, and @madamsnark.


End file.
